THE  LAKE 


George  Moore 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

J.  Lorenz  Sporer 


THE     LAKE 


THE  LAKE 


BY 


GEORGE    MOORE 

AUTHOR  OF  "EVELYN   INNESS," 
"ESTHER  WALTERS,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  February,  1906 


THE     LAKE 


IT  was  one  of  those  enticing  days  at  the  beginning 
of  May  when  white  clouds  are  drawn  about  the 
earth  like  curtains.  The  lake  lay  like  a  mirror  that 
some  one  had  breathed  upon,  the  brown  islands  show- 
ing through  the  mist  faintly,  with  gray  shadows  falling 
into  the  water,  blurred  at  the  edges.  The  ducks  were 
talking  softly  in  the  reeds,  the  reeds  themselves  were 
talking;  and  the  water  lapped  softly  about  the  smooth 
limestone  shores.  But  there  was  an  impulse  in  the  gentle 
day,  and,  turning  from  the  sandy  spit,  Father  Oliver 
walked  to  and  fro  along  the  disused  cart  track  about  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  asking  himself  if  he  were  going  home, 
knowing  quite  well  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
interview  his  parishioners  that  morning.  On  a  sudden 
resolve  to  escape  from  anyone  that  might  be  seeking 
him,  he  went  into  the  wood  and  lay  down  on  the  warm 
grass,  and  admired  the  thickly  tasseled  branches  of  the 
tall  larches  swinging  above  him. 

Among  them  a  bird  uttered  a  cry  like  two  stones 
clinked  sharply  together,  and  getting  up  he  followed  the 
bird,  trying  to  catch  sight  of  it,  but  always  failing  to 

I 


2P 

fa\J  L*»  j  .    •  .  J  ^4: 


THE  LAKE 

do  so ;  it  seemed  to  range  in  a  circle  about  certain  trees, 
and  he  hadn't  gone  very  far  when  he  heard  it  behind 
him.  A  stonechat  he  was  sure  it  must  be,  and  he 
wandered  on  till  he  came  to  a  great  silver  fir,  and 
thought  that  he  spied  a  pigeon's  nest  among  the  mul- 
titudinous branches.  The  nest,  if  it  were  one,  was  about 
sixty  feet  from  the  ground,  perhaps  more  than  that; 
and,  remembering  that  the  great  fir  had  grown  out  of 
a  single  seed,  it  seemed  to  him  not  at  all  wonderful  that 
people  had  once  worshiped  trees,  so  mysterious  is  their 
life,  and  so  remote  from  ours.  He  stood  a  long  time 
looking  up,  hardly  able  to  resist  the  temptation  to  climb 
the  tree — not  to  rob  the  nest  like  a  boy,  but  to  admire 
the  two  gray  eggs  which  he  would  find  lying  on  some  bare 
twigs. 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood  there  were  some  chestnuts 
and  sycamores.  He  noticed  that  the  large-patterned 
leaf  of  the  sycamores,  hanging  out  from  a  longer  stem, 
was  darker  than  the  chestnut  leaf.  There  were  some 
elms  close  by,  and  their  half-opened  leaves,  dainty  and 
frail,  reminded  him  of  clouds  of  butterflies.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  "White,  cottonlike  clouds  unfolded 
above  the  blossoming  trees ;  patches  of  blue  appeared  and 
disappeared ;  'and  he  wandered  on  again,  beguiled  this 
time  by  many  errant  scents  and  willful  little  breezes. 

Very  soon  he  came  upon  some  fields,  and  as  he 
walked  through  the  ferns  the  young  rabbits  ran  from 
under  his  feet,  and  he  thought  of  the  delicious  meals 
that  the  fox  would  snap  up.  He  had  to  pick  his  way, 
for  thorn  bushes  and  hazels  were  springing  up  every- 

2 


THE   LAKE 

where.  Derrinrush,  the  great  headland  stretching  nearly 
a  mile  into  the  lake,  said  to  be  one  of  the  original 
forests,  was  extending  inland.  He  remembered  it  as  a 
deep,  religious  wood,  with  its  own  particular  smell  of 
reeds  and  rushes.  It  went  farther  back  than  the  island 
castles,  farther  back  than  the  Druids,  and  this  wood  was 
among  Father  Oliver's  earliest  recollections.  He  and 
his  brother  James  used  to  go  there  when  they  were  boys 
to  cut  the  hazel  sterns,  out  of  which  they  made  fishing 
rods ;  and  one  had  only  to  turn  over  the  dead  leaves  to 
discover  the  chips  scattered  circlewise  in  the  open  spaces 
where  the  coopers  used  to  sit  making  hoops  for  bar- 
rels. But  iron  hoops  were  now  used  instead  of  hazel, 
and  the  coopers  came  there  no  more.  In  the  old  days 
he  and  his  brother  James  used  to  follow  the  wood- 
ranger,  asking  him  questions  about  the  wild  creatures 
of  the  wood — badgers,  marten  cats,  and  otters.  One  day 
they  took  home  a  nest  of  young  hawks.  He  did  not 
neglect  to  feed  them,  but  they  had  eaten  each  other, 
nevertheless.  He  forgot  what  became  of  the  last  one. 

A  thick  yellow  smell  hung  on  the  still  air.  "  A  fox," 
he  said,  and  he  trailed  the  animal  through  the  hazel 
bushes  till  he  came  to  the  shore.  His  chase  had  led 
him  to  a  rough'shore,  covered  with  juniper  bushes  and 
tussocked  grass,  the  extreme  point  of  the  headland, 
whence  he  could  see  the  mountains — the  pale  southern 
mountains  mingling  with  the  white  sky,  and  the  western 
mountains,  much  nearer,  showing  in  bold  relief.  The 
beautiful  motion  and  variety  of  the  hills  delighted  him, 
and  there  was  as  much  various  color  as  there  were  many 

3 


THE   LAKE 

dips  and  curves,  for  the  hills  were  not  far  enough  away 
to  dwindle  to  one  blue  tint ;  they  were  blue,  but  the  pink 
heather  showed  through  the  blue,  and  the  clouds  con- 
tinued to  fold  and  unfold,  so  that  neither  the  color  nor 
the  lines  were  ever  the  same.  The  retreating  and  ad- 
vancing of  the  great  masses  and  the  delicate  illumina- 
tion of  the  crests  could  be  watched  without  weariness. 
It  was  like  listening  to  music.  Slieve  Cairn  showed 
straight  as  a  bull's  back  against  the  white  sky;  a  cloud 
filled  the  gap  between  Slieve  Cairn  and  Slieve  Louan,  a 
quaint  little  hill  like  a  hunchback  going  down  a  road. 
Slieve  Louan  was  followed  by  a  great  boulderlike  hill 
turned  sideways,  the  top  indented  like  a  crater,  and 
the  priest  likened  the  long,  low  profile  of  the  next  hill 
to  a  reptile  raising  itself  on  its  forepaws. 

He  stood  at  gaze,  bewitched  by  the  play  of  light  and 
shadow  among  the  slopes;  and  when  he  turned  toward 
the  lake  again,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  yacht  by 
Castle  Island.  The  breeze  that  had  just  sprung  up  had 
borne  her  so  far:  now  she  lay  becalmed.  She  carried, 
without  doubt,  a  pleasure-party,  inspired  by  some  vague 
interest  in  ruins,  and  a  very  real  interest  in  lunch;  or 
the  yacht's  destination  might  be  Kilronan  Abbey,  and 
the  priest  wondered  if  there  were  water  enough  in  the 
strait  to  let  her  through  in  this  season  of  the  year.  The 
sails  flapped  in  the  intermittent  breeze,  and  he  began  to 
calculate  her  tonnage,  certain  that  if  he  had  such  a  boat 
he  would  not  be  sailing  her  on  a  lake,  but  on  the  bright 
sea,  out  of  sight  of  land,  in  the  middle  of  a  great  circle 
of  water.  As  if  stung  by  a  sudden  sense  of  the  sea,  of 

4 


THE   LAKE 


its  perfume  and  its  freedom,  he  imagined  the  filling 
of  the  sails  and  the  rattle  of  the  ropes,  and  how  a  fair 
wind  would  carry  him  as  far  as  the  Cove  of  Cork  before 
morning.  The  run  from  Cork  to  Liverpool  would  be 
slower,  but  the  wind  might  veer  a  little,  and  in  four- 
and-twenty  hours  the  Welsh  mountains  would  begin  to 
show  above  the  horizon.  But  he  would  not  land  any- 
where on  the  Welsh  coast.  There  was  nothing  to  see  in 
Wales  but  castles,  and  he  was  weary  of  castles,  and 
longed  to  see  the  cathedrals  of  York  and  Salisbury;  for 
he  had  often  seen  them  in  pictures,  and  had  more  than 
once  thought  of  a  walking  tour  through  England.  Bet- 
ter still  if  the  yacht  were  to  land  him  somewhere  on  the 
French  coast.  England  was,  after  all,  only  an  island 
like  Ireland — a  little  larger,  but  still  an  island — and  he 
thought  he  would  like  a  continent  to  roam  in.  The 
French  cathedrals  were  more  beautiful  than  the  English, 
and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  wander  in  the  French  coun- 
try in  happy-go-lucky  fashion,  resting  when  one  was 
tired,  walking  when  it  pleased  one,  taking  an  interest  in 
whatever  might  strike  one's  fancy. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  desire  was  to  be  freed  for 
a  while  from  everything  he  had  ever  seen,  and  from 
everything  he  ha'd  ever  heard.  He  just  wanted  to  wan- 
der, admiring  everything  there  was  to  admire  as  he 
went.  He  didn't  want  to  learn  anything,  only  to  ad- 
mire. He  was  weary  of  argument,  religious  and  political. 
It  wasn't  that  he  was  indifferent  to  his  country's  welfare, 
but  every  mind  requires  rest,  and  he  wished  himself  away 
in  a  foreign  country,  distracted  every  moment  by  new 

5 


THE   LAKE 

things,  learning  the  language  out  of  a  volume  of  songs, 
and  hearing  music,  any  music,  French  or  German — any 
music  but  Irish  music.  He  sighed,  and  wondered  why  he 
sighed.  Was  it  because  he  feared  that  if  he  once  went 
away  he  might  never  come  back? 

This  lake  was  beautiful,  but  he  was  tired  of  its  low 
gray  shores ;  he  was  tired  of  those  mountains,  melancholy 
as  Irish  melodies,  and  as  beautiful.  He  felt  suddenly 
that  he  didn't  want  to  see  a  lake  or  a  mountain  for  two 
months  at  least,  and  that  his  longing  for  a  change  was 
legitimate  and  most  natural.  It  pleased  him  to  remember 
that  everyone  likes  to  get  out  of  his  native  country  for 
a  while.  But  he  had  never  been  out  of  sight  of  this 
lake  except  the  years  he  had  spent  in  Maynooth.  When 
he  left  Maynooth  he  had  pleaded  that  he  might  be  sent 
to  live  among  the  mountains  by  Kilronan  Abbey,  at  the 
north  end  of  the  lake  .  .  .  when  Father  Conway 
died  he  had  been  moved  round  to  the  western  shore. 
Every  day  of  his  life  he  walked  by  the  lake ;  there  was 
nowhere  else  to  walk,  unless  up  and  down  the  lawn  under 
the  sycamores,  imitating  Father  Peter,  who  used  to  walk 
there,  reading  his  breviary,  stopping  from  time  to  time 
to  speak  to  a  parishioner  in  the  road  below ;  he,  too,  used 
to  read  his  breviary  under  the  sycamores;  but  for  one 
reason  or  another  he  walked  there  no  longer,  and  now 
every  afternoon  found  him  standing  at  the  end  of  this 
sandy  spit,  looking  across  the  lake  toward  Tinnick, 
where  he  was  born,  and  where  his  sisters  lived. 

He  couldn't  see  the  walls  of  the  convent  to-day,  there 
was  too  much  mist  about  .  .  .  and  he  liked  to  see 

6 


THE   LAKE 

them;  for  whenever  he  saw  them  he  began  to  think  of 
his  sister  Eliza,  and  he  liked  to  think  of  her — she  was 
his  favorite  sister.  They  were  nearly  the  same  age,  and 
had  played  together;  and  his  eyes  dwelt  in  imagination 
on  the  dark  corner  under  the  stairs  where  they  used  to 
play.  He  could  even  see  their  toys  through  the  years, 
and  the  tall  clock  which  used  to  tell  them  that  it  was 
time  to  put  them  aside.  Eliza  was  only  eighteen  months 
older  than  he ;  they  were  the  red-haired  ones,  and  though 
they  were  as  different  in  mind  as  it  was  possible  to  be, 
he  seemed  nearer  Eliza  than  anyone  else.  In  what  this 
affinity  consisted  he  couldn't  say,  but  he  had  always  felt 
himself  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood.  Neither  his  father 
nor  mother  had  inspired  this  sense  of  affinity ;  his  sister 
Mary  and  his  brothers  seemed  to  him  merely  people 
whom  he  had  known  always — not  more  than  that ;  where- 
as Eliza  was  quite  different,  and  perhaps  it  was  this  very 
mutuality,  which  he  could  not  define,  that  had  decided 
their  vocations. 

No  doubt  there  is  a  moment  in  everyone's  life  when 
something  happens  to  turn  him  into  the  road  which  he 
is  destined  to  follow;  for  all  that  it  would  be  super- 
ficial to  think  that  the  fate  of  one's  life  is  dependent 
upon  accident.  'The  accident  that  turns  one  into  the 
road  is  only  the  means  which  Providence  takes  to 
procure  the  working  out  of  certain  ends.  Accidents 
are  many:  life  is  as  full  of  accidents  as  a  fire  is  full  of 
sparks,  and  any  spark  will  suffice  to  set  fire  to  the 
train.  The  train  escapes  a  thousand,  but  at  last  a  spark 
lights  it,  and  this  spark  always  seems  to  us  the  only 

7 


THE   LAKE 

one  that  could  have  done  it.  ...  We  cannot 
imagine  how  the  same  result  could  have  been  otherwise 
obtained.  But  other  ways  would  have  been  found;  for 
Nature  is  full  of  resource,  and  if  Eliza  had  not  been 
by  to  fire  the  idea  hidden  in  him,  something  else  would. 
She  was  the  accident,  only  the  accident,  for  no  man 
escapes  his  vocation,  and  the  priesthood  was  his.  A  vo- 
cation always  finds  a  way  out.  But  was  he  sure  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Eliza  that  he  would  have  married  Annie 
McGrath?  He  didn't  think  he  would  have  married 
Annie,  but  he  might  have  married  another.  Annie  was 
a  pleasant,  merry  girl,  a  girl  that  everyone  was  sure 
would  make  a  good  wife  for  any  man,  and  at  that  time 
many  people  were  thinking  that  he  should  marry  Annie. 
And  looking  back  he  couldn't  honestly  say  that  a  stray 
thought  of  Annie  hadn't  found  its  way  into  his  mind; 
but  not  into  his  heart — there  is  a  difference. 

At  that  time  he  was  what  is  known  as  a  growing 
lad;  he  was  seventeen.  His  father  had  been  dead  two 
years,  and  his  mother  looked  to  him,  he  being  the 
eldest,  to  take  charge  of  the  shop,  for  at  that  time  it 
was  almost  settled  that  James  was  to  go  to  America. 
They  had  two  or  three  nice  grass  farms  just  beyond  the 
town:  Patsy  was  going  to  have  them;  and  his  sisters' 
fortunes  were  in  the  bank,  and  very  good  fortunes  they 
were.  They  had  a  hundred  pounds  apiece  and  should 
have  married  well.  Eliza  could  have  married  whomever 
she  pleased.  Mary  could  have  married,  too,  and  to  this 
day  he  couldn't  tell  why  she  hadn't  married 

The  chances  his  sister  Mary  had  missed  rose  up  in 
8 


THE  LAKE 

his  mind — why,  he  did  not  know;  and  a  little  bored  by 
these  memories,  he  suddenly  became  absorbed  in  the 
little  bleat  of  a  blackcap  perched  on  an  alder  bush;  the 
bush  was  the  only  one  amid  a  bed  of  flags  and  rushes. 
"  His  mate  is  sitting  on  her  eggs,  and  there  are  some 
woodgatherers  about ;  that  is  what  is  worrying  the  little 
fellow."  The  bird  continued  to  utter  its  troubled  bleat, 
and  the  priest  walked  on,  thinking  how  different  was  its 
evensong.  He  meditated  an  excursion  to  hear  it,  and 
then,  without  his  being  aware  of  any  transition,  his 
thoughts  returned  to  his  sister  Mary,  and  to  the  time 
when  he  had  once  indulged  in  hopes  that  the  mills  along 
the  riverside  might  be  rebuilt  and  Tinnick  restored  to  its 
former  commercial  prosperity.  He  was  not  certain  if 
he  had  ever  really  believed  that  he  might  set  these  mills 
going,  or  if  he  had,  he  encouraged  an  illusion,  knowing 
it  to  be  one.  He  was  only  certain  of  this,  that  when  he 
was  a  boy  and  saw  no  life  ahead  of  him  except  that  of 
a  Tinnick  shopman,  he  used  to  feel  that  if  he  remained 
at  home  he  must  have  the  excitement  of  speculation.  The 
beautiful  river,  with  its  lime  trees,  appealed  to  his 
imagination ;  the  rebuilding  of  the  mills  and  the  reorgan- 
ization of  trade,  if  he  succeeded  in  reorganizing  trade, 
would  mean  spending  his  mornings  on  the  wharfs  by 
the  riverside,  and  in  those  days  his  one  desire  was  to 
escape  from  the  shop.  He  looked  upon  the  shop  as  a 
prison.  In  those  days  he  liked  dreaming,  and  it  was 
pleasant  to  dream  of  giving  back  to  Tinnick  its  trade 
of  former  days;  but  when  his  mother  asked  him  what 
steps  he  intended  to  take  to  get  the  necessary  capital, 

9 


THE  LAKE 

he  used  to  get  angry  with  her.  He  must  have  known 
that  he  could  never  make  enough  money  in  the  shop  to 
set  the  mills  working!  He  must  have  known  that  he 
would  never  take  his  father's  place  at  the  desk  by  the 
dusty  window!  But  if  he  had  shrunk  from  an  avowal 
it  was  because  he  had  no  other  proposal  to  make.  His 
mother  had  understood  him,  though  the  others  had 
not,  and  seeing  his  inability  to  say  what  kind  of  work 
he  would  put  his  hand  to,  she  had  spoken  of  Annie 
McGrath.  She  hadn't  said  he  should  marry  Annie — 
she  was  a  clever  woman  in  her  way — she  had  merely 
said  that  Annie  had  relations  in  America  who  could 
afford  to  supply  sufficient  capital  to  start  one  of  the 
mills.  But  he  had  never  wanted  to  marry  Annie;  he 
used  to  get  cross  when  the  subject  was  mentioned,  and 
used  to  tell  his  mother  that  if  the  mills  were  to  pay 
it  would  be  necessary  to  start  business  on  a  large  scale. 
He  was  an  impossible,  impracticable  lad  and  he  couldn't 
help  smiling,  for  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  suddenly 
how  he  used  to  go  down  to  the  riverside  to  find  a  new 
argument  wherewith  to  confute  his  mother;  and  when 
he  had  found  one  he  would  return  happy,  and  sit  watch- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  raise  the  question  again. 

No,  it  wasn't  because  Annie's  relations  weren't  rich 
enough  that  he  hadn't  wanted  to  marry  her.  And  to 
account  for  his  prejudice  against  marriage,  he  must  sup- 
pose that  some  notion  of  the  priesthood  was  stirring  in 
him  at  the  time,  for  one  day,  as  he  sat  looking  at 
Annie  across  the  tea  table,  he  couldn't  help  thinking  that 
it  would  be  hard  to  live  alongside  of  her  in  the  shop, 

10 


THE   LAKE 

year  in  and  year  out.  His  mother  would  die,  children 
would  be  born,  and  Annie,  though  a  good  girl  and  a 
pleasant  girl,  was  a  bit  tiresome  to  listen  to,  nor  was  she 
one  of  those  who  improve  with  age.  As  he  had  sat 
looking  at  her,  he  seemed  to  understand,  as  he  had  never 
understood  before,  that  if  he  married  her  all  that  had 
happened  before  would  happen  again — children  scram- 
bling about  the  counter,  and  himself  by  the  dusty  window 
putting  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  just  as  his  father  used  to 
do  when  he  came  forward  to  serve  some  country  woman 
with  half  a  pound  of  tea  or  a  hank  of  onions. 

As  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind, 
he  had  heard  his  mother  saying  that  Annie's  sister  was 
thinking  of  starting  dressmaking  in  the  High  Street, 
and  how  nice  it  would  be  for  Eliza  to  join  her!  Eliza 
had  just  laid  aside  a  skirt  she  had  been  turning,  and  she 
raised  her  eyes  and  stared  at  her  mother,  as  if  she  were 
surprised  her  mother  could  say  anything  so  stupid. 
"  I'm  going  to  be  a  nun,"  she  had  said,  and,  just  as  if 
she  didn't  wish  to  answer  any  questions,  she  had  con- 
tinued her  sewing.  Well  might  they  be  surprised,  for 
not  one  of  them  had  suspected  Eliza  of  religious  inclina- 
tions. She  wasn't  more  pious  than  another,  and  they 
asked  her  if  she  -were  joking.  She  looked  at  them  as 
if  she  thought  the  suggestion  very  stupid,  and  they 
dared  not  ask  her  any  more  questions. 

She  wasn't  more  than  fifteen  at  the  time,  yet  she 
had  spoken  out  of  an  inalterable  resolution.  No,  he 
wouldn't  say  that;  an  inalterable  resolution  meant  that 
she  had  considered  the  matter,  and  a  child  of  fifteen 

ii 


THE   LAKE 

doesn't  consider.  But  a  child  of  fifteen  may  know,  and 
after  he  had  seen  the  look  which  greeted  his  mother's 
question,  and  heard  Eliza's  simple  answer,  "  I've  de- 
cided to  be  a  nun,"  he  had  never  a  doubt  that  what 
she  said  was  true.  And  from  that  day  she  became  for 
him  a  different  being;  and  when  she  told  him,  feeling, 
perhaps,  that  he  sympathized  with  her  more  than  the 
others  did,  that  one  day  she  would  be  Reverend  Mother 
of  the  Tinnick  Convent,  he  felt  convinced  that  she  knew 
what  she  was  saying — how  she  knew  he  could  not  say. 

His  childhood  had  been  a  slumber,  with  occasional 
awakenings  or  half  awakenings,  and  Eliza's  announce- 
ment that  she  intended  to  enter  the  religious  life  was 
the  first  real  awakening;  and  this  awakening  first  took 
the  form  of  an  acute  interest  in  Eliza's  character,  and, 
persuaded  that  she  or  her  prototype  had  already  ex- 
isted, he  had  searched  the  lives  of  the  saints  for  an  ac- 
count of  her.  He  had  found  many  partial  portraits  of 
her;  certain  typical  traits  in  the  lives  of  three  or  four 
saints  reminded  him  of  Eliza,  but  there  was  no  complete 
portrait.  The  strangest  part  of  the  business  was  that 
he  traced  his  vocation  to  his  search  for  Eliza  in  the  lives 
of  the  saints.  Everything  that  had  happened  afterward 
was  the  emotional  sequence  of  taking  down  the  books 
from  the  shelf.  He  didn't  exaggerate ;  it  was  quite  pos- 
sible his  life  might  have  taken  quite  a  different  turn,  for 
up  to  that  time  he  had  only  read  books  of  adventure — 
stories  about  robbers  and  pirates.  As  if  by  magic,  his 
interest  in  such  stories  had  been  removed  from  his  mind ; 
he  had  been  seized  by  an  extraordinary  enthusiasm  for 

12 


THE  LAKE 

saints,  who  by  renouncement  of  animal  life  had  con- 
trived to  steal  up  to  the  last  bounds,  whence  they  could 
see  into  the  eternal  life  that  lies  beyond  the  grave.  Once 
this  power  was  admitted,  what  interest  could  we  find  in 
the  feeble  ambitions  of  temporal  life,  whose  scope  is 
limited  to  three  score  and  ten  years?  And  who  could 
doubt  that  the  saints  had  attained  the  eternal  life,  which 
is  God,  while  still  living  in  the  temporal  flesh?  For  did 
not  the  miracles  of  the  saints  prove  that  they  were  no 
longer  subject  to  natural  laws?  Ireland,  perhaps,  more 
than  any  other  country,  had  understood  the  supremacy 
of  spirit  over  matter,  and  had  striven  to  escape  through 
mortifications  from  the  prison  of  the  flesh.  Without 
doubt  great  numbers  in  Ireland  had  fled  from  the  torment 
of  actual  life  into  the  wilderness.  If  the  shore  and  the 
islands  on  this  lake  were  dotted  with  fortress  castles,  it 
was  the  Welsh  and  the  Normans  who  had  built  them. 
.  .  .  The  priest  remembered  how  his  mind  had  in- 
flamed when  he  first  heard  of  the  hermit  who  had  lived 
in  Church  Island,  and  how  disappointed  he  had  been 
when  he  heard  that  Church  Island  was  ten  miles  away, 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  lake. 

He  could  not  row  himself  so  far,  and  distance  and 
danger  had  restricted  his  youthful  fancy  to  the  islands 
facing  Tinnick.  These  were  two  large  islands  covered 
with  brushwood,  ugly  brown  patches — ugly  as  their 
names;  they  were  known  as  Horse  Island  and  Hog 
Island,  and  never  had  they  appealed  to  his  fancy.  But 
Castle  Island  had  always  seemed  to  be  a  suitable  island 
for  a  hermitage,  far  more  so  than  Castle  Hag.  Castle 
2  13 


THE   LAKE 

Hag  was  too  small  and  bleak  even  to  engage  the  atten- 
tion of  a  sixth-century  hermit.  But  there  were  trees 
on  Castle  Island,  and  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  castle  a 
comfortable  sheiling  could  be  built,  and  the  ground  thus 
freed  from  the  ruins  of  the  Welshman's  castle  might  be 
cultivated.  He  remembered  commandeering  the  fisher- 
man's boat,  and  rowing  himself  out  there,  taking  a  tape 
to  measure,  and  how,  after  much  application  of  the  tape, 
he  had  satisfied  himself  that  there  was  enough  arable 
land  in  the  island  for  a  garden.  He  had  walked  down 
the  island  certain  that  a  quarter  of  an  acre  should  grow 
enough  vegetables  to  support  a  hermit,  and  that  a  goat 
would  be  able  to  pick  a  living  among  the  bushes  and 
the  tussocked  grass;  for  even  a  hermit  might  have  a 
goat,  and  he  didn't  think  he  could  live  without  milk. 

When  he  pushed  his  way  through  the  bushes  the 
appearance  of  the  lake  frightened  him;  it  was  full  of 
blustering  waves,  and  it  wasn't  likely  he'd  ever  forget 
his  struggle  to  get  the  boat  back  to  Tinnick.  He  left 
it  where  he  had  found  it,  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  by 
the  fisherman's  hut,  and  he  returned  home  thinking  how 
he  would  have  to  import  a  little  hay  occasionally  for  the 
goat.  Nor  would  this  be  all;  he  would  have  to  go  on 
shore  every  Sunday  to  hear  Mass,  unless  he  built  a 
chapel.  The  hermit  of  Church  Island  had  an  oratory  in 
which  he  said  Mass!  But  if  he  left  his  island  every 
Sunday  his  hermitage  would  be  a  mockery.  For  the 
moment  he  couldn't  see  how  he  was  to  build  a  chapel — a 
sheiling,  perhaps;  a  chapel  was  out  of  the  question,  he 
feared. 

14 


THE   LAKE 

He  would  have  to  have  vestments  and  a  chalice, 
and,  immersed  in  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  these,  he 
walked  home,  taking  the  path  along  the  river  from 
habit,  not  because  he  wished  to  consider  afresh  the 
problems  of  the  ruined  mills.  The  dream  of  restoring 
Tinnick  to  its  commerce  of  former  days  was  forgotten, 
and  he  walked  on,  thinking  of  his  chalice,  until  he 
heard  somebody  call  him.  It  was  Eliza,  and  as  the  two 
of  them  leaned  over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  he  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  himself  from  telling  her  that  he 
had  rowed  himself  out  to  Castle  Island,  never  think- 
ing that  she  would  reprove  him,  and  sternly,  for  taking 
the  fisherman's  boat  without  asking  leave.  It  was  no 
use  to  argue  with  Eliza  that  the  fisherman  didn't  want 
his  boat,  the  day  being  too  rough  for  fishing.  What 
did  she  know  about  fishing?  She  had  asked  very 
sharply  what  had  brought  him  out  to  Castle  Island  on 
such  a  day.  There  was  no  use  saying  he  didn't  know; 
he  had  never  been  able  to  keep  a  secret  from  Eliza,  and 
feeling  that  he  must  confide  in  somebody,  he  had  told 
her  he  was  tired  of  living  at  home,  and  was  thinking 
of  building  a  sheiling  on  the  island. 

Eliza  hadn't  understood,  and  she  understood  still  less 
when  he  spoke  of  a  beehive  hut,  such  as  the  ancient 
hermits  of  Ireland  used  to  live  in.  She  was  entirely 
without  imagination;  but  what  had  surprised  him 'still 
more  than  her  lack  of  sympathy  with  his  dream  project 
was  her  inability  to  understand  an  idea  so  inherent  in 
Christianity  as  the  hermitage,  for  at  that  time  Eliza  had 
decided  to  enter  the  religious  life.  He  had  waited  a 

15 


THE   LAKE 

long  time  for  her  answer,  but  the  only  answer  she  had 
made  was  that  in  the  early  centuries  a  man  was  a  bandit 
or  a  hermit.  This  wasn't  true:  life  was  peaceful  in 
Ireland  in  the  sixth  and  seventh  centuries;  even  if  it 
weren't,  she  ought  to  have  understood  that  change  of 
circumstance  cannot  alter  an  idea  so  inherent  in  man 
as  the  hermitage,  and  when  he  asked  her  if  she  in- 
tended to  found  a  new  order,  or  to  go  out  to  Patagonia 
to  teach  the  Indians,  she  laughed,  saying  she  was  much 
more  interested  in  a  laundry  than  in  the  Indians.  Her 
plea  that  the  Tinnick  Convent  was  always  in  straits  for 
money  did  not  appeal  to  him  then  any  more  than  it 
did  to-day. 

"  The  officers  in  Tinnick  have  to  send  their  washing 
to  Dublin." 

"  A  fine  reason  for  entering  a  convent." 

But  quite  unmoved  by  the  sarcasm,  she  had  an- 
swered that  it  is  very  difficult  for  a  woman  to  do  any- 
thing unless  she  is  a  member  of  a  congregation  that 
can  help  her  to  do  things.  Nor  had  his  suggestion  that 
the  object  of  the  religious  life  is  meditation  embar- 
rassed her  in  the  least^and  he  remembered  well  how  she 
had  said: 

"  Putting  aside  for  the  moment  the  important  ques- 
tion whether  there  may  or  may  not  be  hermits  in  the 
twentieth  century,  tell  me,  Oliver,  are  you  thinking  of 
marrying  Annie  McGrath?  You  know  she  has  rich  re- 
lations in  America,  and  you  might  get  them  to  supply 
the  capital  to  set  the  mills  going.  The  mills  would  be 
a  great  advantage.  Annie  has  a  good  headpiece,  and 

16 


THE   LAKE 

would  be  able  to  take  the  shop  off  your  hands,  leaving 
you  free  to  look  after  the  mills." 

"  The  mills,  Eliza!  there  are  other  things  in  the  world 
besides  those  mills! " 

"  A  hermitage  on  Castle  Island?  " 

Eliza  could  be  very  impertinent  when  she  liked.  If 
she  weren't  interested  in  what  one  was  saying,  she 
looked  round,  displaying  an  irritating  curiosity  in  every 
passer-by.  She  had  drawn  his  attention  to  the  ducks  on 
the  river  while  he  was  telling  her  of  the  great  change 
that  had  come  over  him,  and  he  had  felt  like  boxing  her 
ears.  But  the  moment  he  began  to  speak  of  taking 
Orders  she  forgot  all  about  the  ducks;  her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him,  she  listened  to  his  every  word,  and  when 
he  had  finished  speaking,  she  reminded  him  there  had 
always  been  a  priest  in  the  family.  All  her  wits  were 
awake.  He  was  the  one  of  the  family  who  had  shown 
most  aptitude  for  learning,  and  their  cousin,  the  bishop, 
would  be  able  to  help  him.  What  she  would  like  would 
be  to  see  him  parish  priest  of  Tinnick.  The  parish  was 
one  of  the  best  in  the  diocese.  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  she 
was  thinking  at  that  moment  of  the  advantage  this  ar- 
rangement would  be  to  her  when  she  was  directing  the 
affairs  of  the  convent. 

If  there  was  no  other,  there  was  at  least  one  woman 
in  Ireland  who  was  interested  in  things.  He  had  never 
met  anyone  less  interested  in  opinions  or  in  ideas  than 
Eliza.  They  had  walked  home  together  in  silence,  at 
all  events  not  saying  much,  and  that  very  evening  she 
left  the  room  immediately  after  supper.  They  had  heard 

17 


THE   LAKE 

sounds  of  trunks  being  dragged  along  the  passage;  fur- 
niture was  being  moved,  and  when  she  came  downstairs 
she  just  said  she  was  going  to  sleep  with  Mary. 

"  Oliver  is  going  to  have  my  room.  He  must  have  a 
room  to  himself  on  account  of  his  studies." 

On  that  she  had  gathered  up  her  sewing,  and  had  left 
him  to  explain.  He  had  felt  that  it  was  rather  sly  of  her 
to  go  away  like  that,  leaving  all  the  explanation  to  him. 
She  wanted  him  to  be  a  priest,  and  was  full  of  little  tricks. 
There  was  no  time  for  further  consideration.  There  was 
only  just  time  to  prepare  for  the  examination.  He  had 
worked  hard,  for  his  work  interested  him,  especially  the 
Latin  language;  but  what  interested  him  far  more  than 
his  aptitude  for  learning  whatever  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  learn  was  the  discovery  of  a  religious  vocation 
in  himself.  Eliza  had  feared  that  his  interest  in  hermits 
sprang  from  a  boyish  taste  for  adventure  rather  than 
from  religious  feeling,  but  no  sooner  had  he  begun  his 
studies  for  the  priesthood,  than  he  found  himself  over- 
taken and  overpowered  by  an  extraordinary  religious 
fervor  and  by  a  desire  for  prayer  and  discipline.  Never 
had  a  boy  left  home  more  zealous,  more  desirous  to  excel 
in  piety  and  to  strive  for  the  honor  and  glory  of  the 
Church. 

An  expression  of  anger,  almost  of  hatred,  passed  over 
Father  Oliver's  face,  and  he  turned  from  the  lake  and 
walked  a  few  yards  rapidly,  hoping  to  escape  from  re- 
membrance of  his  folly;  for  he  had  made  a  great  fool  of 
himself,  no  doubt.  But,  after  all,  he  preferred  his  enthu- 
siasms, however  exaggerated  they  might  seem  to  him 

18 


THE   LAKE 

now,  to  the  commonplace — he  could  not  call  it  wisdom — 
of  those  whom  he  had  taken  into  his  confidence.  It  was 
foolish  of  him,  no  doubt,  to  have  told  how  he  used  to  go 
out  in  a  boat  and  measure  the  ground  about  Castle 
Island,  thinking  to  build  himself  a  beehive  hut  out  of  the 
ruins.  He  knew  too  little  of  the  world  at  that  time;  he 
had  no  idea  how  incapable  these  students  were  of  under- 
standing anything  outside  the  narrow  interests  of  con- 
ventional life.  Anyhow,  he  had  had  the  satisfaction  of 
having  beaten  them  in  all  the  examinations;  and  if  he  had 
cared  to  go  on  for  advancement,  he  could  have  easily 
got  ahead  of  them  all,  for  he  had  better  brains  and  better 
interest  than  any  of  them.  When  he  last  saw  that  igno- 
rant brute  Peter  Fahy,  Fahy  asked  him  if  he  still  put 
pebbles  in  his  shoes.  It  was  to  Fahy  he  had  confided  the 
cause  of  his  lameness,  and  Fahy  had  told  on  him ;  he  was 
disgracefully  innocent  in  those  days,  and  he  could  still 
see  them  gathered  about  him,  pretending  not  to  believe 
that  he  kept  a  cat-o'-nine-tails  in  his  room,  and  scourged 
himself  at  night.  It  was  Tom  Bryan  who  said  that  he 
wouldn't  mind  betting  a  couple  of  shillings  that  Gogarty's 
whip  wouldn't  draw  a  squeal  from  a  pig  on  the  roadside. 
The  answer  to  that  was :  "  A  touch  will  make  a  pig 
squeal:  you  should  have  said  an  ass!"  But  at  the  mo- 
ment he  couldn't  think  of  an  answer. 

No  doubt  everyone  looked  on  him  as  a  ninny,  and 
they  had  persuaded  him  to  prove  to  them  that  his  whip 
was  a  real  whip  by  letting  Tom  Bryan  do  the  whipping 
for  him.  Tom  Bryan  was  a  rough  fellow,  who  ought  to 
have  been  driving  a  plow ;  a  plowman's  life  was  too  peace- 

19 


THE   LAKE 

ful  an  occupation  for  him — a  drover's  life  would  have 
suited  him  best,  prodding  his  cattle  along  the  road  with  a 
goad;  it  was  said  that  was  how  he  maintained  his  author- 
ity in  the  parish.  The  remembrance  of  the  day  he  had 
bared  his  back  to  that  fellow  was  still  a  bitter  one.  With 
a  gentle  smile  he  had  handed  the  whip  to  Tom  Bryan, 
the  very  smile  which  he  imagined  the  hermits  of  old  time 
used  to  wear.  The  first  blow  had  so  stunned  him  that  he 
couldn't  cry  out,  and  this  blow  was  followed  by  a  second 
which  sent  the  blood  flaming  through  his  veins,  and  then 
by  another  which  brought  all  the  blood  into  one  point  in 
his  body.  He  seemed  to  lose  consciousness  of  every- 
thing but  three  inches  of  back.  Nine  blows  he  had  borne 
without  wincing;  the  tenth  overcame  his  fortitude,  and  he 
had  reeled  away  from  Tom  Bryan. 

Tom  had  exchanged  the  whip  he  had  given  him  for 
a  great  leather  belt;  that  was  why  he  had  been  hurt  so 
grievously — hurt  till  the  pain  seemed  to  reach  his  very 
heart.  Tom  had  belted  him  with  all  his  strength;  and 
half  a  dozen  of  Tom's  pals  were  waiting  outside  the  door, 
and  they  came  into  the  room,  their  wide  mouths  agrin, 
asking  him  how  he  liked  it.  But  they  were  unprepared 
for  the  pain  his  face  expressed,  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
agony  he  noticed  that  already  they  foresaw  consequences, 
and  he  heard  them  reprove  Tom  Bryan,  their  intention 
being  to  disassociate  themselves  from  him.  Cowards! 
cowards!  cowards! 

They  tried  to  help  him  on  with  his  shirt,  but  he  had 
been  too  badly  beaten,  and  Tom  Bryan  came  up  in  the 
evening  to  ask  him  not  to  tell  on  him.  He  promised, 

20 


THE   LAKE 

and  he  wouldn't  have  told  if  he  could  have  helped  it. 
But  some  explanation  had  to  be  forthcoming — he 
couldn't  lie  on  his  back.  The  doctor  was  sent  for.  .  .  . 

And  next  day  he  was  told  the  president  wished  to 
see  him.  The  president  was  Eliza  over  again;  hermits 
and  hermitages  were  all  very  well  in  the  early  centuries, 
but  religion  had  advanced,  and  nowadays  a  steadfast  piety 
was  more  suited  to  modern  requirements  than  pebbles 
in  the  shoes.  If  it  had  been  possible  to  leave  for  America 
that  day  he  thought  he  would  have  gone.  But  he 
couldn't  leave  Maynooth  because  he  had  been  fool 
enough  to  bare  his  back  to  Tom  Bryan.  He  couldn't 
return  home  to  tell  such  a  story  as  that.  All  Tinnick 
would  be  laughing  at  him,  and  Eliza,  what  would  she 
think  of  him?  He  wasn't  such  a  fool  as  the  Maynooth 
students  thought  him,  and  he  had  realized  at  once  that 
he  must  stay  in  Maynooth  and  live  down  remembrance  of 
his  folly.  So,  as  the  saying  goes,  he  had  taken  the  bit 
between  his  teeth. 

The  necessity  of  living  down  his  first  folly,  of  creating 
a  new  idea  of  himself  in  the  minds  of  the  students,  had 
forced  him  to  apply  all  his  intelligence  to  his  studies,  and 
he  had  made  extraordinary  progress  in  the  first  years. 
The  recollection  of  the  ease  with  which  he  had  out- 
distanced his  fellow  students  was  as  pleasant  as  the 
breezes  about  the  lake,  and  his  thoughts  dwelt  on  the 
opinion  which  he  knew  had  been  entertained,  that  for 
many  years  there  had  not  been  anyone  at  Maynooth  who 
had  shown  such  aptitude  for  scholarship.  He  had  only 
to  look  at  a  book  to  know  more  about  it  than  his  fellow 

21 


THE   LAKE 

students  would  know  if  they  were  to  spend  days  over  it. 
He  had  won  honors.  He  could  have  won  greater  honors 
if  his  conscience  had  not  reminded  him  that  the  gifts  he 
had  received  from  God  had  not  been  bestowed  upon  him 
for  the  mere  purpose  of  humiliating  his  fellow  students. 
He  used  to  feel  then  that  if  certain  talents  had  been  given 
to  him,  they  had  been  given  to  him  to  use  for  the  greater 
glory  of  God  rather  than  for  his  own  glorification.  He 
used  to  feel  there  was  nothing  more  hateful  in  God's  sight 
than  intellectual,  unless  perhaps  spiritual,  pride,  and  his 
object  during  his  last  years  at  Maynooth  had  been  to  ex- 
hibit himself  to  the  least  advantage. 

It  is  strange  how  an  idea  enters  the  soul  and  remakes 
it,  and  when  he  left  Maynooth  he  had  used  his  influence 
with  his  cousin,  the  bishop,  to  get  himself  appointed  to 
the  poorest  parish  in  Connaught.  Eliza  had  to  dis- 
semble, but  he  knew  that  in  her  heart  she  was  furious 
with  him.  We  are  all  extraordinarily  different  one  from 
another,  and  if  we  seem  most  different  from  those  whom 
we  are  most  like,  it  is  because  we  know  nothing  at  all 
about  strangers.  He  had  gone  to  Kilronan  in  spite  of 
Eliza,  in  spite  of  everyone,  their  cousin,  the  bishop,  in- 
cluded. He  had  been  very  happy  in  Bridget  Clery's  cot- 
tage, so  happy  that  he  didn't  know  himself  why  he  had 
ever  consented  to  leave  Kilronan. 

No,  it  was  not  because  he  was  too  happy  there.  He 
had  to  a  certain  extent  outgrown  his  very  delicate  con- 
science. 


22 


II 


A  BREEZE  rose,  the  forest  murmured,  a  bird  sang, 
the  sails  of  the  yacht  filled,  and  the  priest 
watched  her  disappear  behind  a  rocky  head- 
land. He  knew  now  that  her  destination  was  Kilronan 
Abbey.  But  would  she  be  able  to  get  through  the  strait  ? 
For  at  this  season  of  the  year  there  was  hardly  a  suffi- 
cient depth  of  water  to  float  a  boat  of  her  size.  If  she 
stuck,  the  picnic  party  would  get  into  the  small  boat,  and, 
thus  lightened,  the  yacht  might  be  floated  into  the  other 
arm  of  the  lake.  "  A  pleasant  day  indeed  for  a  sail,"  and 
in  imagination  he  followed  the  yacht  down  the  lake,  past 
its  different  castles,  Castle  Carra  and  Castle  Burke  and 
Church  Island,  the  island  on  which  Marban — Marban,  the 
famous  hermit  poet — had  lived. 

It  seemed  to  him  strange  that  he  had  never  thought 
of  visiting  the  ruined  church  when  he  lived  close  by  at 
the  northern  end  of  the  lake.  His  time  used  to  be  en- 
tirely taken  up  with  attending  to  the  wants  of  his  poor 
people,  and  the  first  year  he  spent  in  Garranard  he  had 
thought  only  of  the  possibility  of  inducing  the  Govern- 
ment to  build  a  bridge  across  the  strait.  That  bridge 
was  badly  wanted.  All  the  western  side  of  the  lake  was 
cut  off  from  railway  communication.  Tinnick  was  the 
terminus,  but  to  get  to  Tinnick  one  had  to  go  round  the 

23 


THE   LAKE 

lake,  either  by  the  northern  or  the  southern  end,  and  it 
was  always  a  question  which  was  the  longer  road — round 
by  Kilronan  Abbey  or  by  the  Bridge  of  Keel.  Many 
people  said  the  southern  road  was  shorter,  but  the  differ- 
ence wasn't  more  than  a  mile,  if  that,  and  Father  Oliver 
preferred  the  northern  road;  for  it  took  him  by  his  cu- 
rate's house,  and  he  could  always  stop  there  and  give  his 
horse  a  feed  and  a  rest,  and  he  liked  to  revisit  the  abbey 
in  which  he  had  said  Mass  for  so  long,  and  in  which  Mass 
had  always  been  said  for  a  thousand  years,  even  since 
Cromwell  had  unroofed  it,  the  celebrant  sheltered  by  an 
arch,  the  congregation  kneeling  under  the  open  sky, 
whether  it  rained  or  snowed. 

The  roofing  of  the  abbey  and  the  bridging  of  the  strait 
were  the  two  things  that  the  parish  was  really  interested 
in.  He  had  tried  when  he  was  in  Kilronan  to  obtain  the 
archbishop's  consent  and  collaboration ;  Moran  was  try- 
ing now:  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  succeeding  any 
better;  and  Father  Oliver  reflected  a  while  on  the  peculiar 
temperament  of  their  diocesan,  and  getting  down  from 
the  rock  on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  he  wandered  along 
the  sunny  shore,  thinking  of  the  many  letters  he  had  ad- 
dressed to  the  Board  of  Works  on  the  subject  of  the 
bridge.  The  board  believed,  or  pretended  to  believe, 
that  the  parish  could  not  afford  the  bridge ;  as  well  might 
it  be  urged  that  a  cripple  could  not  afford  crutches. 
Without  doubt  a  public  meeting  should  be  held;  and  in 
some  little  indignation  Father  Oliver  began  to  think  that 
public  opinion  should  be  roused  and  organized.  It  was 
for  him  to  do  this:  he  was  the  people's  natural  leader;  but 

24 


THE  LAKE 

for  many  months  he  had  done  nothing  in  the  matter. 
Why,  he  didn't  know  himself.  Perhaps  he  needed  a  holi- 
day; perhaps  he  no  longer  believed  the  Government  sus- 
ceptible to  public  opinion ;  perhaps  he  had  lost  faith  in  the 
people  themselves!  The  people  were  the  same  always; 
the  people  never  change,  only  individuals  change. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  sandy  spit,  where  some  pines 
had  grown  and  seeded,  he  stood  looking  across  the  sil- 
very lake  wondering  if  his  parishioners  had  begun  to 
notice  the  change  that  had  come  over  him  since  Rose 
Leicester  left  the  parish.  As  her  name  came  into  his 
mind  his  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  sound  of 
voices,  and  turning  from  the  lake,  he  saw  two  wood 
gatherers  coming  down  a  little  path  through  the  juniper 
bushes.  He  often  hid  himself  in  the  woods  when  he  saw 
somebody  coming,  but  he  couldn't  do  so  now  without 
betraying  his  intention,  and  he  stayed  where  he  was. 
The  women  passed  on,  bent  under  their  loads.  Whether 
they  saw  him  or  not  he  couldn't  tell;  they  passed  near 
enough  for  him  to  recognize  them,  and  he  remembered 
that  they  were  in  church  the  day  he  had  alluded  to  Rose 
Leicester  in  his  sermon.  A  hundred  yards  farther  on 
the  women  put  down  their  loads  and  sat  down  to  rest, 
and  Father  Oliver  began  to  think  what  their  conversation 
might  be.  His  habit  of  wandering  away  by  himself  had 
no  doubt  been  noticed,  and  once  it  was  noticed  it  would 
become  a  topic  of  conversation.  "  And  what  they  are 
saying  now  is,  '  Ah,  sure,  he  never  has  been  the  same 
man  since  he  preached  against  the  schoolmistress.  And 
what  should  he  be  doing  by  the  lake  if  fear  that  she  has 

25 


THE   LAKE 

made  away  with  herself  weren't  on  his  mind?'  And 
perhaps  they  are  right,"  he  said  to  himself;  and  he  walked 
up  the  shore,  hoping  that  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight 
the  women  would  cease  to  speak  of  him  and  Rose 
Leicester. 

All  the  morning  he  had  been  trying  to  avoid  thinking 
of  her,  but  now,  as  he  rambled,  he  could  not  put  back  the 
memory  of  the  day  he  had  met  her  for  the  first  time.  It 
was  in  the  summer,  as  nearly  as  possible  two  years  ago. 
To-day  was  the  fifteenth  of  May;  it  was  certainly  later  in 
the  year.  It  must  have  been  in  June,  for  the  day  was 
very  hot,  and  he  had  been  riding  fast,  not  wishing  to 
keep  Catherine's  dinner  waiting.  As  he  pushed  his 
bicycle  through  the  gate,  he  saw  the  great  cheery  man, 
Father  Peter,  with  a  face  like  an  apple,  walking  up  and 
down  under  the  sycamores  reading  his  breviary,  and  to 
this  moment  he  could  hear  his  loud,  rough  voice;  and 
feel  the  grasp  of  his  great  hand.  But  he  was  earlier  than 
he  expected,  and  Father  Peter  said  that  Catherine  would 
sign  to  them  when  her  dinner  was  ready,  and  they  had 
walked  in  the  pleasant  shade  of  the  trees.  '~ 

It  must  have  been  in  June,  for  the  mowers  were  in  the 
field  opposite,  in  the  field  known  as  the  priest's  field, 
though  Father  Peter  had  never  rented  it.  There  had 
never  been  such  weather  in  Ireland  before ;  the  sky  was 
like  boiled  starch,  and  he  remembered  how  eagerly  he 
listened  to  Father  Peter,  who  was  telling  how  excellently 
well  the  new  schoolmistress  played  the  harmonium,  and 
how  beautifully  she  had  sung  last  Sunday  at  Mass.  Her 
musical  talents  could  not  interest  Father  Peter,  for  he 

26 


THE  LAKE 

was  without  an  ear  or  taste  for  music.  That  was  right 
enough,  but  what  Father  Oliver  didn't  understand  was 
why  her  music  should  stand  in  her  way,  she  being  in 
everything  else  able  and  competent.  Nor  was  it  her 
music  that  stood  in  her  way,  as  he  discovered  later,  but 
her  looks  and  her  spinsterhood,  for  a  good-looking,  un- 
married girl,  according  to  Father  Peter,  was  a  danger 
in  a  parish.  Father  Oliver  remembered  distinctly  the 
trouble  that  Father  Peter's  words  had  caused  him.  It 
was  just  as  if  a  vapor  had  arisen,  and  he  couldn't  see 
clearly.  That  was  all;  it  might  be  just  as  Father  Peter 
had  said:  it  certainly  was,  as  he  knew  to  his  cost,  but  at 
the  time  he  hadn't  understood,  or  rather  he  had  been 
troubled — that  was  it.  He  hadn't  answered  Father  Peter, 
and  they  walked  on  a  few  yards,  and  Father  Peter  nudged 
him,  and  said  under  his  breath,  "  Here  is  the  young 
woman  herself  coming  across  the  field."  And  he  looked 
that  way  and  saw  Rose  Leicester  coming  across  the  field 
toward  the  stile.  The  stile  was  an  open  one,  and  she 
twisted  herself  through  it.  Father  Peter  called  her,  and 
as  she  stood  in  the  road  below,  Father  Oliver  had  admired 
a  thin,  freckled  face,  with  a  pretty,  straight  nose  and  gray, 
sparkling  eyes.  All  his  sympathy  had  gone  out  to  her, 
for  it  seemed  to  him  a  disgrace  that  she  should  not  be 
allowed  to  keep  her  situation  because  God  had  given  her 
a  larger  share  of  good  looks  than  any  other  woman  in 
the  parish.  And  what  made  the  injustice  seem  more 
flagrant  was  that,  notwithstanding  all  that  Father  Peter 
might  say  to  the  contrary,  there  was  no  doubt  that  her 
harmonium  playing  and  her  singing  prejudiced  her  in 

27 


THE   LAKE 

this   unmusical   priest's   eyes.    And  why?    Because   a 
beautiful  voice  is  an  attraction  in  itself! 

He  couldn't  tell  how  it  was,  but  his  whole  nature  had 
suddenly  and  instinctively  rebelled  against  the  decision 
that  she  should  not  be  allowed  to  remain  in  the  parish. 
But  he  hadn't  been  able  to  influence  Father  Peter;  he  had 
seen  clearly  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  have  to  go. 
And  he  had  left  Father  Peter  earlier  than  usual  that 
evening,  and  all  the  way  home,  as  he  rode  down  the 
lonely  roads,  he  thought  of  the  misfortune  that  pretty 
red  hair  and  gray  eyes  had  brought  upon  Rose  Leicester. 
Everything  about  her  was  attractive  and  winning,  even 
her  name,  and  he  wasn't  sure  that  her  very  English  name 
had  not  prejudiced  her  chances  of  keeping  her  situation. 
He  had  to  admit  that  she  did  not  dress  very  wisely;  she 
dressed  too  well  for  her  station,  and  he  remembered  how 
she  held  the  handle  of  her  blue-silk  parasol  between  fore- 
finger and  thumb.  Her  hair  wasn't  red,  though  there 
was  red  in  it;  and  it  was  three  days  after  that  he  dis- 
covered the  real  color  of  her  hair;  it  was  blond.  He  had 
met  her  about  two  miles  from  Garranard.  He  was  on 
his  bicycle  and  she  was  on  hers,  and  they  had  leaped  in- 
stinctively from  their  machines.  What  had  impressed 
him  this  time,  far  more  than  her  looks,  was  her  happi- 
ness. He  had  never  seen  a  happy  face  before,  and  while 
they  talked  by  the  roadside  he  was  thinking  of  the  great 
cruelty  and  the  shame  it  would  be  to  bring  tears  to  those 
happy  eyes.  And  she  would  be  sent  away  without  being 
told  why  she  was  sent  away!  Which  would  be  perhaps 
the  greatest  cruelty  of  all. 

28 


THE   LAKE 


They  had  seemed  unable  to  get  away  from  each  other, 
so  much  had  they  to  say.  He  had  mentioned  his  brother 
James.  He  was  doing  well  in  America,  and  would  per- 
haps one  day  send  them  the  price  of  a  harmonium.  She 
had  told  him  she  couldn't  play  on  the  wheezy  old  thing 
at  Garranard.  At  the  moment  he  clean  forgot  that  the 
new  harmonium  would  avail  her  little,  since  Father  Peter 
was  going  to  get  rid  of  her;  he  only  remembered  it  as  he 
got  on  his  bicycle,  and  he  returned  home  ready  to  espouse 
her  cause  against  everyone. 

She  must  write  to  the  archbishop,  and  if  he  wouldn't 
do  anything  she  must  write  to  the  papers.  Influence 
must  be  brought  to  bear,  and  Father  Peter  must  be  pre- 
vented from  perpetrating  a  gross  injustice.  He  had  felt 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  remain  Father 
Peter's  curate  if  the  schoolmistress  were  sent  away  for 
no  fault  of  hers,  merely  because  she  was  a  nice-looking 
girl  with  a  refined  and  cultivated  taste  for  music.  What 
Father  Peter  would  have  done  if  he  had  lived  no  one 
would  ever  know.  In  however  summary  and  unwar- 
ranted a  way  he  might  have  dismissed  her,  the  injustice 
would  have  been  slight  compared  with  what  had  hap- 
pened to  her. 

The  memory  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  her  put  such 
a  pain  into  his  heart  that  he  stopped;  he  stood  like  one 
dazed  or  daft;  he  seemed  to  lose  sight  of  everything; 
he  heard  nothing  till  a  fish  leaping  in  the  languid  lake 
awoke  him,  and  he  walked  on,  absorbed  in  the  clear  con- 
ception of  his  mistake,  his  thoughts  swinging  back  to 
the  day  he  had  met  her  on  the  roadside,  and  to  the  events 
3  29 


THE   LAKE 

that  succeeded  their  meeting.  Father  Peter  had  been 
taken  ill,  two  days  after  he  was  dead,  before  the  end  of 
the  week  he  was  in  his  coffin;  and  the  same  fate  might 
be  his  to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  Life  is  but  a  shadow, 
and  the  generations  go  by  like  shadows.  Very  wonder- 
ful is  life's  coming  and  going,  but  however  rapidly  life 
passes,  there  is  always  time  for  wrongdoing;  and  only 
time  for  repentance  is  short.  Atonement  may  be  with- 
held. We  always  atone  sooner  or  later;  the  question  is 
in  what  world  do  we  atone  for  the  sin.  But  he  had  com- 
mitted no  sin,  only  an  error  of  judgment.  However  this 
might  be,  there  had  been  no  peace  of  mind  for  him  ever 
since. 

No  doubt  other  men  had  committed  faults  as  grave 
as  his ;  but  they  had  had  the  strength  to  leave  the  matter 
in  the  hands  of  God,  to  say :  "  I  can  do  nothing,  I  must 
put  myself  in  the  hands  of  God;  let  Him  judge:  He  is 
all  wise."  He  hadn't  their  force  of  character.  He 
believed  as  firmly  as  they  did,  but,  for  some  reason  which 
he  couldn't  explain  to  himself,  he  couldn't  leave  the 
matter  in  God's  hands,  and  was  always  thinking  how  he 
could  get  news  of  her.- 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  woman,  for  that  detestable 
Mrs.  O'Mara,  she  who  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much 
evil  in  the  parish.  .  .  .  And  his  heart  was  full  of  a 
hatred  so  black  that  it  surprised  him,  and  he  asked  him- 
self if  he  could  ever  forgive  that  woman.  God  might, 
he  couldn't.  And  he  fell  to  thinking  how  Mrs.  O'Mara 
had  long  been  a  curse  upon  the  parish.  Father  Peter  had 

30 


THE   LAKE 

often  to  speak  about  her  from  the  altar,  and,  she  listen- 
ing to  him,  he  had  explained  that  the  stories  she  had 
set  going  were  untrue.  Father  Peter  had  warned  him, 
but  warnings  are  no  good;  he  had  listened  to  him  con- 
vinced at  the  time  that  it  was  wrong  and  foolish  to  listen 
to  scandal  mongers.  But  what  had  he  done  in  spite  of 
Father  Peter's  warning — fool  that  he  was,  that  he  had 
been?  There  was  no  use  going  over  the  wretched  story 
again;  he  was  weary  of  going  over  it,  and  he  tried  to 
put  it  out  of  his  mind.  But  it  wouldn't  be  put  out  of  his 
mind,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  began  to  recall  the 
events  of  the  day  when  she  had  asked  to  see  him.  He 
had  been  out  all  the  morning,  walking  about  with  an 
engineer  who  had  been  sent  down  by  the  Board  of  Works 
to  consider  the  possibility  of  building  the  bridge,  and 
had  just  come  in  to  rest.  Catherine  had  brought  him  a 
cup  of  tea;  he  was  sitting  by  the  window,  nearly  too 
tired  to  drink  it.  The  door  was  flung  open.  If  Catherine 
had  only  asked  him  if  he  were  at  home  to  visitors,  he 
would  probably  have  said  he  wasn't  at  home  to  Mrs. 
O'Mara;  but  he  hadn't  been  asked,  and  he  remembered 
how  disagreeably  her  appearance  had  impressed  him  as 
she  came  into  the  room.  But  she  had  an  interesting  way 
of  talking — that  is  the  danger  of  such  women;  they  are 
generally  good  talkers,  and  the  listener  is  entrapped 
before  he  is  aware  of  it.  She  knew  all  about  the  engineer, 
who  his  father  and  mother  were;  she  had  stories  to  tell 
about  their  marriage,  and  how  he  had  got  his  appoint- 
ment, and  what  his  qualifications  were.  It  is  easy  to  say 
one  shouldn't  listen  to  such  people,  but  he  remembered 

31 


THE   LAKE 

well  why  he  didn't  cut  short  the  interview — she  might 
be  bringing  some  important  information  that  might  be 
of  use  to  him.  So  he  had  listened,  and  when  the  bridge, 
and  the  immense  advantage  of  it,  had  been  discussed 
sufficiently,  she  told  him  she  had  been  staying  at  the 
convent.  Any  news  of  Eliza  interested  him,  and  Father 
Oliver  marveled  at  the  amount  of  tittle-tattle  that  Mrs. 
O'Mara  had  gathered  up. 

She  had  tales  to  tell  about  all  the  nuns  and  about 
all  the  pupils.  She  told  him  that  half  the  Catholic 
families  in  Ireland  had  promised  to  send  their  daughters 
to  Tinnick  if  Eliza  had  succeeded  in  finding  some  one 
who  could  teach  music  and  singing.  But  Eliza  didn't 
think  there  was  anyone  in  the  country  qualified  for  the 
post  but  Rose  Leicester.  If  Mrs.  O'Mara  could  be 
believed,  Eliza  had  said  that  she  could  offer  Rose 
Leicester  more  money  than  she  was  earning  in  Garra- 
nard.  Until  then  he  had  only  half  listened  to  Mrs. 
O'Mara's  chatter,  for  he  disliked  the  woman — her  chatter 
only  amused  him  as  the  chatter  of  a  bird  might;  but 
when  he  heard  that  his  sister  was  trying  to  get  his  school- 
mistress away  from  him  he  had  flared  up.  "  Oh,  but  I 
don't  think  that  your  schoolmistress  would  suit  a  convent 
school.  I  shouldn't  like  my  daughter — "  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  "  Her  face  changed  expression,  and  in  her 
nasty  mincing  manner  she  had  begun  to  throw  out  hints 
that  Rose  Leicester  would  not  suit  the  nuns.  He  could 
see  that  she  was  concealing  something — there  was  some- 
thing at  the  back  of  her  mind.  Women  of  her  sort  want 
to  be  persuaded;  their  bits  of  scandal  must  be  dragged 

32 


THE  LAKE 

from  them  by  force ;  they  are  the  unwilling  victims  who 
would  say  nothing  if  they  could  help  it.  She  had  said 
enough  to  make  it  impossible  to  let  matters  stand  as  they 
were ;  he  had  had  to  ask  her  to  speak  out,  and  she  began 
to  speak  about  a  certain  man  whom  Rose  used  to  meet 
on  the  hillside  (she  wouldn't  give  the  man's  name,  she 
was  too  clever  for  that).  She  could  only  say  that  Rose 
had  been  seen  on  the  hillside  walking  in  lonely  places 
with  a  man.  Truly  a  detestable  woman!  His  thoughts 
strayed  from  her  for  a  moment,  for  it  gave  him  pleasure 
to  recollect  that  he  had  defended  his  schoolmistress. 
Didn't  he  say :  "  Now,  then,  Mrs.  O'Mara,  if  you  have 
anything  definite  to  say,  say  it,  but  I  won't  listen 
to  indefinite  charges."  "  Charges — who  is  making 
charges  ? "  she  asked,  and  he  had  unfortunately  called 
her  a  liar.  In  the  middle  of  the  tumult  she  had  dropped 
a  phrase:  "Anyhow,  her  appearance  is  against  her." 
And  it  was  true  that  Rose  Leicester's  appearance  had 
changed  in  the  last  few  months.  Seeing  that  her  words 
had  had  a  certain  effect,  Mrs.  O'Mara  quieted  down ;  and 
while  he  stood  wondering  if  it  could  possibly  be  true 
that  Rose  had  deceived  them,  that  she  had  been  living 
in  sin  all  these  months,  he  had  suddenly  heard  Mrs. 
O'Mara  saying  that  he  was  lacking  in  experience — which 
was  quite  true,  but  her  way  of  saying  it  had  roused  the 
devil  in  him.  Who  was  she  that  she  should  come  telling 
him  that  he  lacked  experience?  To  be  sure,  he  wasn't 
an  old  midwife,  and  that's  what  Mrs.  O'Mara  looked  like, 
sitting  before  him. 

He  had  lost  control  of  himself,  saying,  "  Now,  will 
33 


THE   LAKE 

you  get  out  of  this  house,  you  old  scandal  monger,  or 
I'll  take  you  by  the  shoulders  and  put  you  out ! "  And 
he  had  thrown  the  front  door  open.  What  a  look  she 
had  given  him  as  she  passed  out!  At  that  moment  the 
clock  struck  three.  He  remembered  suddenly  that  the 
children  were  coming  out  of  school.  It  would  have  been 
better  if  he  had  waited.  But  he  couldn't  wait :  he'd  have 
gone  mad  if  he  had  waited ;  and  he  remembered  how  he 
had  jumped  into  the  road  and  squeezed  through  the  stile ; 
he  had  run  across  the  field.  "  Why  all  this  hurry  ?  "  he 
had  asked  himself. 

She  was  locking  up  the  desks,  and  the  children  went 
by  him  courtesying.  He  had  to  wait  till  the  last  one  had 
gone.  .  .  .  Rose  must  have  guessed  his  errand;  he 
noticed  that  she  had  turned  pale.  "  I've  seen  Mrs. 
O'Mara,"  he  blurted  out,  "  and  she  tells  me  that  you've 
been  seen  walking  with  some  man  on  the  hillside  in  lonely 
places.  .  .  .  Don't  deny  it  if  it  is  true."  "  I'm  not  going 
to  deny  anything  that  is  true."  How  brave  she  was !  Her 
courage  had  attracted  him  and  softened  his  heart.  But 
everything  was  true,  alas !  and  she  had  told  him  that  her 
plans  were  to  steal  out  of  the  parish  without  saying  a 
word  to  anyone,  for  she  was  determined  not  to  disgrace 
him  or  the  parish.  She  was  thinking  of  him  in  all  her 
trouble,  and  everything  might  have  ended  well  if  he  had 
not  asked  her  who  the  man  was.  She  would  not  say, 
nor  give  any  reasons  why  she  wouldn't  do  so.  Only  this, 
that  if  the  man  had  deserted  her  she  didn't  want  anyone 
to  bring  him  back,  if  he  could  be  brought  back;  if  the 
man  were  dead  it  were  better  to  say  nothing  about  him. 

34 


THE  LAKE 

"  But  if  it  were  his  fault?  "  "  I  don't  see  that  that  would 
make  any  difference." 

They  had  gone  out  of  the  schoolhouse  talking  in 
quite  a  friendly  way.  There  was  a  little  drizzle  in  the 
air,  and,  opening  her  umbrella,  she  had  said,  "  I'm  afraid 
you'll  get  wet."  "Get  wet,  get  wet!  what  matter?"  he 
had  answered  impatiently,  for  the  remark  annoyed  him. 
By  the  hawthorn  bush  he  had  begun  again  to  tell  her  that 
it  would  relieve  his  mind  to  know  who  the  man  was.  She 
tried  to  get  away  from  him,  but  he  wouldn't  let  her  go ; 
and  catching  her  by  the  arm  he  besought  her,  saying  that 
it  would  relieve  his  mind.  How  many  times  had  he  said 
that  ?  But  he  wasn't  able  to  persuade  her,  notwithstand- 
ing his  insistence  that  as  a  priest  of  the  parish  he  had  a 
right  to  know.  No  doubt  she  had  some  very  deep  reason 
for  keeping  her  secret,  or  perhaps  his  authoritative  man- 
ner was  the  cause  of  her  silence.  However  this  might  be, 
any  words  would  have  been  better  than  "  it  would  relieve 
my  mind  to  know  who  the  man  was."  "  Stupid,  stupid, 
stupid ! "  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  he  wandered  from 
the  cart  track  into  the  wood. 

It  was  impossible  to  say  now  why  he  had  wished  to 
press  her  secret  from  her.  It  would  be  unpleasant  for 
him,  as  priest  of  the  parish,  to  know  that  the  man  was 
living  in  the  parish ;  but  it  would  be  still  more  unpleasant 
if  he  knew  who  the  man  was.  Rose's  seducer  could  be 
none  other  than  one  of  the  young  soldiers  who  had  taken 
the  fishing  lodge  at  the  head  of  the  lake.  Mrs.  O'Mara 
had  hinted  that  Rose  had  been  seen  with  one  of  them  on 
the  hill,  and  he  thought  how  on  a  day  like  this  she  might 

35 


THE   LAKE 

have  been  led  away  among  the  ferns.  At  that  moment 
there  came  out  of  the  thicket  a  floating  ball  of  thistle 
down.  "  It  bloweth  where  it  listeth,"  he  said.  "  Soldier 
or  shepherd,  what  matter  now  she  is  gone  ?  "  and  getting 
up  from  the  grass  and  coming  down  the  sloping  lawn, 
overflowing  with  the  shade  of  the  larches,  he  climbed 
through  the  hawthorns  growing  out  of  a  crumbled  wall. 
Once  more  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  lake,  he  listened. 
He  could  only  hear  the  tiresome  clanking  call  of  the 
stonechat,  and  he  compared  its  reiterated  call  with  the 
words  "  atonement,"  "  forgiveness,"  "  death,"  "  calam- 
ity." These  were  always  clanking  in  his  heart.  She  might 
be  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake,  and  some  day  a  white 
phantom  might  rise  from  the  water  and  claim  him. 

His  thoughts  broke  away,  and  he  relived  in  memory 
the  very  agony  of  mind  he  had  endured  when  he  went 
home  after  her  admission  that  she  was  with  child.  All 
that  night,  all  next  day,  and  for  how  many  days  ?  Would 
the  time  ever  come  when  he  could  think  of  her  without 
a  pain  in  his  heart  ?  It  is  said  that  time  brings  forgetful- 
ness.  Does  it?  On  Saturday  morning  he  had  sat  at  his 
window,  asking  himself  4f  he  should  go  down  to  see  her 
or  if  he  should  send  for  her.  There  were  confessions  in 
the  afternoon,  and  expecting  that  she  would  come  to 
confess  to  him,  he  had  not  sent  for  her.  One  never 
knows ;  perhaps  it  was  her  absence  from  confession  that 
had  angered  him.  His  temper  had  taken  a  different  turn 
that  evening.  All  night  he  had  lain  awake ;  he  must  have 
been  a  little  mad  that  night,  for  he  could  only  think  of 
the  loss  of  a  soul  to  God,  and  of  God's  love  of  chastity. 

36 


THE   LAKE 

All  night  long  he  had  repeated  with  variations  that  it 
were  better  that  all  which  our  eyes  see — this  earth  and 
the  stars  that  are  in  being — should  perish  utterly,  be 
crushed  into  dust,  rather  than  a  mortal  sin  should  be 
committed.  In  an  extraordinary  lucidity  of  mind  he  had 
gone  on  thinking  of  God's  anger,  and  his  own  responsi- 
bility toward  God.  Undoubtedly  there  are  times  when 
we  lose  control  of  our  minds,  when  we  are  a  little  mad. 
He  foresaw  his  danger,  but  he  could  not  do  otherwise 
than  to  get  out  of  bed  and  begin  to  prepare  his  sermon, 
for  he  had  to  preach,  and  he  could  only  preach  on 
chastity  and  the  displeasure  sins  against  chastity  cause 
God.  He  could  think  but  of  this  one  thing,  the  dis- 
pleasure God  must  feel  against  Rose  and  the  seducer  who 
had  robbed  her  of  the  virtue  God  prized  most  in  her.  He 
must  have  said  things  that  he  would  not  have  said  at  any 
other  time.  His  brain  was  on  fire  that  morning,  and 
words  had  risen  to  his  lips — he  knew  not  whence  nor 
how  they  had  come,  and  he  had  no  idea  now  of  what  he 
had  said.  He  only  knew  that  she  had  left  the  church 
during  his  sermon;  at  what  moment  he  did  not  know, 
nor  did  he  know  that  she  had  left  the  parish  till  next  day, 
when  the  children  came  up  to  tell  him  there  was  no 
schoolmistress.  And  from  that  day  to  this  no  news  of 
her,  nor  any  way  of  getting  news  of  her. 

His  thoughts  suddenly  went  to  the  hawthorn  trees. 
He  could  not  think  of  her  any  more  for  the  moment, 
and  it  relieved  his  mind  to  examine  the  green  pips  that 
were  beginning  to  appear  among  the  leaves.  "  The  haw- 
thorns will  be  in  flower  in  another  week,"  he  said;  and  he 

37 


THE   LAKE 

began  to  wonder  at  the  beautiful  order  of  the  spring. 
The  pear  and  the  cherry  were  the  first;  these  were  fol- 
lowed by  the  apple,  and  after  the  apple  came  the  lilac, 
the  chestnut,  and  the  laburnum.  The  forest  trees,  too, 
had  their  order.  The  ash  was  still  leafless,  but  it  was 
shedding  its  catkins,  and  in  another  fifteen  days  its  light 
foliage  would  be  dancing  in  the  breeze.  The  oak  was 
last  of  all.  At  that  moment  a  swallow  flitted  from  stone 
to  stone,  too  tired  to  fly  far,  and  he  wondered  whence  it 
had  come.  A  cuckoo  called  from  a  distant  hill;  it,  too, 
had  been  away  and  had  come  back. 

His  eyes  dwelt  on  the  lake,  refined  and  wistful,  with 
reflections  of  islands  and  reeds,  mysteriously  still.  Rose- 
colored  clouds  descended,  revealing  many  new  and 
beautiful  mountain  forms,  every  pass  and  every  crest  dis- 
tinguishable. It  was  the  hour  when  the  cormorants  come 
home  to  roost,  and  he  saw  three  black  specks  flying  low 
above  the  glittering  surface ;  rising  from  the  water,  they 
alighted  with  a  flutter  of  wings  on  the  corner  wall  of 
what  remained  of  Castle  Hag,  "  and  they  will  sleep  there 
till  morning,"  he  said,  as  he  toiled  up  a  little  path,  twist- 
ing through  ferns  and  thorn  bushes.  At  the  top  of  the 
hill  was  his  house,  the  house  Father  Peter  had  built.  Its 
appearance  displeased  him,  and  he  stood  for  a  long  time 
watching  the  evening  darkening  and  the  yacht  being 
towed  home,  her  sails  lowered,  the  sailors  in  the  rowing 
boat. 

"  They  will  be  well  tired  before  they  get  her  back  to 
Tinnick; "  and  he  turned  and  entered  his  house  abruptly. 


Ill 


CATHERINE'S  curiosity  was  a  worry.  As  if  he 
knew  why  he  hadn't  come  home  to  his  dinner ! 
If  she'd  just  finish  putting  the  plates  on  the 
table  and  leave  him.  Of  course  there  had  been  callers. 
One  man,  the  man  he  especially  wished  to  see,  had  driven 
ten  miles  to  see  him.  It  was  most  unfortunate,  but  it 
couldn't  be  helped;  he  had  felt  that  morning  that  he 
couldn't  stay  indoors — the  business  of  the  parish  had 
somehow  got  upon  his  nerves,  but  not  because  he  had 
been  working  hard.  He  had  done  but  little  work  since 
she  left  the  parish.  Now  was  that  story  going  to  begin 
again?  If  it  did,  he  should  go  out  of  his  mind;  and  he 
looked  round  the  room,  thinking  how  a  lonely  evening 
breeds  thoughts  of  discontent. 

Most  of  the  furniture  in  the  room  was  Father 
Peter's.  Father  Peter  had  left  his  curate  his  furniture, 
but  the  pretty  mahogany  bookcase  and  the  engravings 
upon  the  walls  were  Father  Oliver's  own  taste;  he  had 
bought  them  at  an  auction,  and  there  were  times  when 
these  purchases  pleased  him.  But  now  he  was  thinking 
that  Father  Peter  must  have  known  to  whom  the  parish 
would  go  at  his  death,  for  he  could  not  have  meant  all 
his  furniture  to  be  taken  out  of  the  house — "  there  would 
be  no  room  for  it  in  Bridget  Clery's  cottage ;  "  and  Father 
Oliver  sat  thinking  of  the  evenings  he  used  to  spend  with 

39 


THE   LAKE 

Father  Peter.  How  often  during  those  evenings  Father 
Peter  must  have  said  to  himself,  "  One  day,  Gogarty, 
you  will  be  sitting  in  my  chair  and  sleeping  in  my  bed." 
And  Father  Oliver  pondered  on  his  affection  for  the 
dead  man.  There  had  been  no  differences  of  opinion, 
only  one — the  neglected  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house ; 
and,  smiling  sadly,  Father  Oliver  remembered  how  he 
used  to  reprove  the  parish  priest. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  too  big  and  too  fat  and  too  fond  of 
my  pipe  and  my  glass  of  whisky  to  care  much  about 
carnations.  But  if  you  get  the  parish  when  I'm  gone, 
I'm  sure  you'll  grow  some  beauties,  and  you'll  put  a 
bunch  on  my  grave  sometimes,  Gogarty."  The  very  ring 
of  the  dead  man's  voice  seemed  to  vibrate  through  the 
lonely  room,  and,  sitting  in  Father  Peter's  chair,  with 
the  light  of  Father  Peter's  lamp  shining  on  his  face  and 
hand,  Father  Oliver's  thoughts  flowed  on.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  not  sufficiently  understood  and  appre- 
ciated Father  Peter's  kindliness,  and  he  recalled  his  per- 
fect good  nature.  "  Death  reveals  many  things  to  us," 
he  said;  and  he  lifted  his  head  to  listen,  for  the  silence 
in  the  house  and  aboutrthe  house  reminded  him  of  the 
silence  of  the  dead,  and  he  began  to  consider  what  his 
own  span  of  life  might  be.  He  might  live  as  long  as 
Father  Peter  (Father  Peter  was  fifty-five  when  he  died)  ; 
if  so,  twenty-one  years  of  existence  by  the  lake's  side 
awaited  him,  and  these  years  seemed  to  him  empty  like  a 
desert — yes,  and  as  sterile.  "  Twenty-one  years  wonder- 
ing what  became  of  her,  and  every  evening  like  this 
evening — the  same  loneliness." 

40 


THE   LAKE 

He  sat  watching  the  hands  of  his  clock,  and  a  peaceful 
meditation  about  a  certain  carnation  that  unfortunately 
burst  its  calyx  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  thought. 
Whence  the  thought  had  come  he  could  not  tell,  nor  what 
had  put  it  into  his  head,  but  it  had  occurred  to  him  sud- 
denly that  "  if  Father  Peter  had  lived  a  few  weeks  longer 
he  would  have  found  means  of  exchanging  Rose  Leicester 
for  another  schoolmistress,  more  suitable  to  the  require- 
ments of  the  parish.  If  Father  Peter  had  lived  he  would 
have  done  her  a  grievous  wrong.  He  wouldn't  have 
allowed  her  to  suffer,  but  he  would  have  done  her  a 
wrong  all  the  same."  And  it  were  better  that  a  man 
should  meet  his  death  than  he  should  do  a  wrong  to 
another.  But  he  wasn't  contemplating  his  own  death  nor 
Rose's  when  this  solution  of  the  difficulty  occurred  to 
him.  Our  inherent  hypocrisy  is  so  great  that  it  is  difficult 
to  know  what  one  does  think.  He  surely  did  not  think 
it  well  that  Father  Peter  had  died,  his  friend,  his  bene- 
factor, the  man  in  whose  house  he  was  living?  Of 
course  not.  Then  it  was  strange  he  could  not  keep  the 
thought  out  of  his  mind  that  Father  Peter's  death  had 
saved  the  parish  from  a  great  scandal,  for  if  Rose  had 
been  dismissed  he  might  have  found  himself  obliged  to 
leave  the  parish. 

Again  he  turned  on  himself  and  asked  how  such 
thoughts  could  come  into  his  mind.  True,  the  coming 
of  a  thought  into  the  consciousness  is  often  unexpected, 
but  if  the  thought  were  not  latent  in  the  mind,  it  would 
not  arise  out  of  the  mind ;  and  if  Father  Peter  knew  the 
base  thoughts  he  indulged  in — yes,  indulged  in,  for  he 


THE   LAKE 

could  not  put  them  quite  out  of  his  mind — he  very  much 
feared  that  the  gift  of  all  this  furniture  might —  No, 
he  was  judging  Father  Peter  ill;  Father  Peter  was 
incapable  of  a  mean  regret. 

But  who  was  he,  he'd  like  to  be  told,  that  he  should 
set  himself  up  as  Father  Peter's  judge?  The  evil  he  had 
foreseen  had  happened.  If  Father  Peter  felt  that  Rose 
Leicester  was  not  the  kind  of  schoolmistress  the  parish 
required,  should  he  not  send  her  away  ?  The  need  of  the 
parish,  of  the  many,  before  the  one.  Moreover,  Father 
Peter  was  under  no  obligation  whatsoever  to  Rose 
Leicester.  She  had  been  sent  down  by  the  School  Board 
subject  to  his  approval.  "  But  my  case  is  quite  dif- 
ferent. I  chose  her ;  I  decided  that  she  was  to  remain." 
And  he  asked  himself  if  his  decision  had  come  about 
gradually.  No,  he  had  never  hesitated;  he  had  dis- 
missed Father  Peter's  prejudices  as  unworthy.  .  .  .  The 
church  needed  some  good  music.  But  had  he  thought 
of  the  church?  Hardly  at  all.  His  first  consideration 
had  been  his  personal  pleasure,  and  he  had  wished  that 
the  best  choir  in  the  diocese  should  be  in  his  church. 
Rose  Leicester  had  enabled  him  to  gratify  his  vanity. 
He  had  made  her  his  friend,  he  had  taken  pleasure  in  her 
smiles,  and  in  the  fact  that  he  had  only  to  express  a 
desire  for  it  to  be  fulfilled.  After  school,  tired  though 
she  might  be,  she  was  always  willing  to  meet  him  in  the 
church  for  choir  practice.  She  would  herself  propose  to 
decorate  the  altar  for  feast  days.  How  many  times  had 
they  walked  round  the  garden  together  gathering  flowers 
for  the  altar!  And  it  was  strange  that  she  could  decorate 

42 


THE   LAKE 

so  well  without  knowing  much  about  flowers  or  having 
much  natural  taste  for  flowers. 

Feeling  he  was  doing  her  an  injustice,  he  admitted 
that  she  had  made  much  progress,  under  his  guidance,  in 
her  knowledge  of  flowers. 

"  But  how  did  he  treat  her  in  the  end,  despite  all  her 
kindnesses  ?  Shamefully,  shamefully,  shamefully !  "  and 
getting  up  from  his  chair  he  walked  across  the  room,  and 
when  he  turned  he  stopped,  and  drew  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  The  clock  struck  twelve.  "  I  shall  be  awake  at 
dawn,  and  with  all  this  story  running  in  my  head,"  and 
he  paused  at  his  bedroom  door.  But  having  suffered  in 
thought,  he  was  spared  the  realization,  and  that  morning 
he  lay  awake,  hardly  annoyed  at  all  by  the  blackbirds' 
whistling,  contentedly  going  over  the  mistakes  he  had 
made — a  little  surprised,  however,  that  the  remembrance 
of  them  did  not  cause  him  more  pain.  At  last  he  fell 
into  profound  sleep,  and  when  his  housekeeper  knocked 
at  his  door  and  he  heard  her  saying  that  it  was  past  eight, 
he  leaped  out  of  bed  cheerily,  and  sang  a  stave  of  song 
as  he  shaved  himself.  He  gashed  his  chin,  however,  for 
he  could  not  keep  his  attention  fixed  on  his  work,  but 
must  peep  over  the  top  of  the  glass,  whence  he  could  see 
his  garden,  and  think  how  next  year  he  would  contrive 
a  better  arrangement  of  color.  It  was  difficult  to  stop 
the  bleeding,  and  he  knew  that  Catherine  would  grumble 
at  the  state  he  left  the  towels  in  (he  should  not  have 
used  his  bath  towel) ;  but  these  were  minor  matters.  He 
was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  day. 

The  sight  of  strawberries  on  his  breakfast  table 
43 


THE   LAKE 

delighted  him,  and  the  man  who  had  driven  ten  miles  to 
see  him  yesterday  called,  and  he  shared  his  strawberries 
with  him.  They  smoked  a  pipe  together  before  they 
went  out.  Never  had  he  felt  in  better  spirits  as  they 
walked  down  the  hillside ;  the  sunlight  was  exciting,  and 
the  lake  looked  beautiful,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  stride 
along,  talking  of  the  bridge  (at  last  there  seemed  some 
prospect  of  getting  one).  The  intelligence  of  this  new 
inspector  filled  him  with  hope,  and  he  expatiated  on  the 
advantages  of  the  bridge  and  many  other  things.  Nor 
did  his  humor  seem  to  depend  entirely  on  the  companion- 
ship of  his  visitor.  It  endured  long  after  his  visitor  had 
left  him,  and  very  soon  he  began  to  think  that  his  desire 
to  go  away  for  a  long  holiday  was  a  passing  indisposition 
of  mind  rather  than  a  need.  It  pleased  him  to  postpone 
his  holiday  to  the  end  of  the  year,  when  he  would  have 
more  leisure — to  the  month  when  the  Government  would 
give  a  formal  promise  to  build  the  bridge. 

His  change  of  mind  interested  him,  and  he  watched 
it  and  pondered  it  during  his  afternoon  walks,  till  one 
day  he  looked  round  the  empty  country,  and  a  sudden 
sense  of  his  loneliness  swept  over  him.  He  could  not 
tell  at  first  whether  the  pang  he  had  just  experienced  was 
a  recurrence  of  the  old  pain ;  he  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  it  was  but  a  vivid  memory  of  it,  but  very  soon  he 
was  driven  to  admit  that  the  longing  to  go  away  had 
returned.  That  evening  was  not  spent  in  writing  letters 
about  the  affairs  of  the  parish,  but  staring  at  the  lamp, 
hearing  Catherine  finishing  her  last  work  in  the  kitchen  ; 
and  he  would  get  up  from  his  chair  and  walk  terror- 

44 


THE   LAKE 

stricken  about  his  room.  That  night  he  hardly  slept  at 
all.  Lying  between  sleeping  and  waking,  he  thought  of 
the  long,  bright,  dusty  day  before  him,  and  how  it  would 
pass  away  hour  by  hour.  At  the  end  of  the  afternoon  he 
stood,  a  solitary  figure,  looking  across  the  lake,  heart- 
sick and  wondering,  feeling  that  nothing  could  save  him 
but  the  spell  of  foreign  travel;  and  his  overwrought 
brain  imagined  a  fair  country,  and  himself  as  rambling, 
interested  in  the  passers-by  and  the  distant  spire. 

As  he  turned  homeward  a  resolution  strove  to  form 
itself  in  his  heart.  The  strangest  part  of  his  disease  was 
that  he  seemed  unable  to  go,  though  he  knew  that  to 
remain  were  to  die.  He  seemed  held  back,  and,  unable 
to  discover  any  natural  reason  for  his  hesitancy,  he  began 
to  indulge  in  superstitious  fears  lest  Rose's  spirit  haunted 
the  lake,  and  that  his  punishment  was  to  be  kept  a  prisoner 
always. 

One  day,  as  he  stood  at  the  end  of  the  sandy  spit, 
seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  he  was  startled  by  a 
footstep.  He  fancied  it  must  be  she,  but  it  was  only 
Christy,  the  boy  who  worked  in  his  garden. 

"  Your  reverence,  the  postman  overlooked  this  letter 
in  the  morning.  It  was  stuck  at  the  bottom  of  the  bag. 
He  hopes  the  delay  won't  make  any  difference." 

From  Father  O'Grady  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"June  I,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  FATHER  GOGARTY  : 

"  I  am  writing  to  ask  you  if  you  know  anything 
about  a  young  woman  called  Rose  Leicester.    She  tells 
4  45 


THE   LAKE 


me  that  she  was  schoolmistress  in  your  parish  and 
organist  in  your  church,  and  that  you  thought  very 
highly  of  her  until  one  day  a  talebearer,  Mrs.  O'Mara 
by  name,  went  to  your  house  and  told  you  that  your 
schoolmistress  was  going  to  have  a  baby.  It  appears 
that  at  first  you  refused  to  believe  her,  and  that  you 
ran  down  to  the  school  to  ask  Miss  Leicester  herself  if 
the  story  you  had  heard  about  her  was  a  true  one.  She 
admitted  it,  but  on  her  refusal  to  tell  you  who  was  the 
father  of  the  child  you  lost  your  temper;  and  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  you  alluded  to  her  so  plainly,  in  your 
sermon  about  chastity,  that  there  was  nothing  for  her  but 
to  leave  the  parish. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  disbelieve  Miss 
Leicester's  story;  I  am  an  Irish  priest  like  yourself,  sir. 
I  have  worked  in  London  among  the  poor  for  forty 
years,  and  Miss  Leicester's  story  is,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  not  an  uncommon  one;  it  is,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  most  probable;  it  is  what  would  happen  to  any 
schoolmistress  in  Ireland  in  similar  circumstances.  The 
ordinary  course  is  to  find  out  the  man  and  to  force  him 
to  marry  the  girl;  if  this  fails,  to  drive  the  woman  out 
of  the  parish,  it  being  better  to  sacrifice  one  affected 
sheep  than  that  the  whole  flock  should  be  contaminated. 
I  am  an  old  man ;  Miss  Leicester  tells  me  that  you  are  a 
young  man.  I  can  therefore  speak  quite  frankly.  I 
believe  the  practice  to  which  I  have  alluded  is  in- 
human and  unchristian,  and  has  brought  many  an  Irish 
girl  to  unspeakable  misery  and  degradation.  I  have  been 
able  to  rescue  some,  and,  touched  by  their  stories,  I 

46 


THE   LAKE 

have  written  frequently  to  the  priest  of  the  parish 
pointing  out  to  him  that  his  responsibility  is  not  merely 
local,  and  does  not  end  as  soon  as  the  woman  has  passed 
the  boundary  of  his  parish.  I  would  ask  you  what  you 
think  your  feelings  would  be  if  I  were  writing  to  you 
now  to  tell  you  that,  after  some  months  of  degraded 
life,  Miss  Leicester  had  thrown  herself  from  one  of  the 
bridges  into  the  river?  That  might  very  well  have  been 
the  story  I  had  to  write  to  you;  fortunately  for  you, 
it  is  another  story. 

"  Miss  Leicester  is  a  woman  of  strong  character,  and 
does  not  give  way  easily ;  her  strength  of  will  has  enabled 
her  to  succeed  where  another  woman  might  have  failed. 
She  is  now  living  with  one  of  my  parishioners,  a  Mrs. 
Dent,  of  24  Harold  Street,  who  has  taken  a  great  liking 
to  her,  and  helped  her  through  her  most  trying  time, 
when  she  had  very  little  money  and  was  alone  and 
friendless  in  London.  Mrs.  Dent  recommended  her  to 
some  people  in  the  country  who  would  look  after  her 
child.  She  allowed  her  to  pay  her  rent  by  giving  les- 
sons to  her  daughter  on  the  piano.  One  thing  led  to 
another;  the  lady  who  lived  on  the  drawing-room  floor 
took  lessons,  and  Miss  Leicester  is  earning  now,  on  an 
average,  thirty  shillings  per  week,  which  little  income 
will  be  increased  if  I  can  appoint  her  to  the  post  of 
organist  in  my  church,  my  organist  having  been  obliged 
to  leave  me  on  account  of  her  health.  It  was  while 
talking  to  Mrs.  Dent  on  this  very  subject  that  I  first 
heard  Miss  Leicester's  name  mentioned. 

"  Mrs.  Dent  was  enthusiastic  about  her,  but  I  could 

47 


THE   LAKE 

see  that  she  knew  little  about  her  lodger's  antecedents, 
except  that  she  came  from  Ireland.  She  was  anxious 
that  I  should  engage  her  at  once,  declaring  that  I  could 
find  no  one  like  her,  and  she  asked  me  to  see  her  that 
evening.  I  went,  and  the  young  woman  impressed  me 
very  favorably.  She  came  to  my  church  and  played  for 
me.  I  could  see  that  she  was  an  excellent  musician,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  why  I  should  not  engage 
her  at  once.  I  should  probably  have  done  so  without 
asking  further  questions — for  I  do  not  care  to  inquire 
too  closely  into  a  woman's  past,  once  I  am  satisfied  that 
she  wishes  to  lead  an  honorable  life — but  Miss  Leicester 
volunteered  to  tell  me  what  her  past  had  been,  saying 
it  was  better  I  should  hear  it  from  her  than  from  another. 
When  she  had  told  me  her  sad  story,  I  reminded  her 
of  the  anxiety  that  her  disappearance  from  the  parish 
would  cause  you.  She  shook  her  head,  saying  you  did 
not  care  what  happened  to  her.  I  assured  her  that  such 
a  thing  was  not  the  case,  and  begged  of  her  to  allow 
me  to  write  to  you;  but  I  did  not  obtain  her  consent 
until  she  began  to  see  that  if  she  withheld  it  any  longer 
we  might  think  she  was  concealing  some  important 
fact.  Moreover,  I  impressed  upon  her  that  it  was  right 
that  I  should  hear  your  story,  not  because  I  disbelieved 
hers — I  take  it  for  granted  the  facts  are  correctly  stated — 
but  in  the  event  of  your  being  able  to  say  something 
which  would  put  a  different  complexion  upon  them. 
"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  FATHER  O'GRADY,  P.P." 


48 


IV 


AFTER  reading  Father  O'Grady's  letter  he  looked 
round,  fearing  lest  some  one  should  speak  to 
him.  Christy  was  already  some  distance  away ; 
there  was  nobody  else  in  sight;  and  feeling  he  was  safe 
from  interruption,  he  went  toward  the  wood,  thinking 
of  the  good  priest  who  had  saved  her  (in  saving  her 
Father  O'Grady  had  saved  him),  and  of  the  waste  of 
despair  into  which  he  would  certainly  have  drifted  if 
the  news  had  been  that  she  had  killed  herself.  The 
thought  was  an  appalling  one,  and  he  stood  looking  into 
the  green  wood  mysteriously,  aware  of  the  bird  life  in 
the  branches.  Suddenly  he  lay  down  and  watched  the 
insect  life  among  the  grass — that  beetle  pursuing  its 
little  destiny.  But  he  was  too  exalted  to  remain  lying 
down,  and  he  wandered  on,  led  by  a  bird's  song  to 
the  edge  of  a  dell.  A  phantom  life  seemed  to  emerge 
and  beckon  him,  and  he  asked  if  the  madness  of  the 
woods  had  overtaken  him.  ...  A  ray  of  light  fell 
through  the  branches  and  dissipated  the  shadow  shape. 
Farther  on  he  came  upon  a  chorus  of  finches  singing  in 
some  hawthorn  trees,  and  in  Derrinrush  he  stopped  to 
listen  to  the  silence  that  had  suddenly  fallen.  A  shadow 
floated  by,  and  he  looked  up.  The  cause  of  the  silence 
was  a  hawk  passing  overhead.  Young  birches  and  firs 

49 


THE   LAKE 

were  springing  up  in  the  clearance,  and  the  priest  shaded 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  His  feet  sank  in  sand,  he  tripped  over 
tufts  of  rough  grass,  and  was  glad  to  get  out  of  this 
part  of  the  wood  into  the  shade  of  large  trees. 

Trees  always  interested  him,  and  he  began  to  think 
of  their  great  roots  seeking  the  darkness,  and  of  their 
light  branches  lifting  themselves  in  love  toward  the  sky. 
But  he  and  these  trees  were  one,  for  there  is  but  one 
life,  one  mother,  one  elemental  substance  out  of  which 
all  has  come.  That  was  it,  and  his  thoughts  paused. 
Only  in  union  is  there  happiness,  and  for  many  weary 
months  he  had  been  isolated,  thrown  out;  but  to-day  he 
had  been  drafted  suddenly  into  the  general  life,  he  had 
become  again  part  of  the  general  harmony,  and  that 
was  why  he  was  so  happy.  No  better  explanation  was 
forthcoming,  and  he  did  not  think  that  a  better  one  was 
required — at  least,  not  to-day. 

He  noticed  with  pleasure  that  he  no  longer  tried  to 
pass  behind  a  thicket  nor  into  one  when  he  met  poor 
woodgatherers  bent  under  their  heavy  loads.  He  even 
stopped  to  speak  to  a  woman  out  with  her  children ;  the 
three  were  breaking  sticks  across  their  knees,  and  he 
encouraged  them  to  talk  to  him.  But  without  his  being 
aware  of  it,  his  thoughts  hearkened  back,  and  when  it 
came  to  his  turn  to  answer  he  could  not  answer.  He 
had  been  thinking  of  Rose,  and,  ashamed  of  his  ab- 
sentmindedness,  he  left  them  tying  up  their  bundles  and 
went  toward  the  shore,  stopping  many  times  to  admire 
the  pale  arch  of  evening  sky  with  never  a  wind  in  it,  nor 
any  sound  but  the  cries  of  swallows  in  full  pursuit.  "  An 

50 


THE  LAKE 


immemorial  evening,"  he  said,  and  there  was  such  a 
lightness  in  his  feet  that  he  believed,  or  very  nearly,  there 
were  wings  on  his  shoulders,  which  he  only  had  to  open 
to  float  away  whither  he  might  wish  to  go. 

His  brain  overflowed  with  remembrances  of  her 
forgiveness,  and  at  midnight  he  sat  in  his  study  still 
thinking,  still  immersed  in  his  happiness,  hearing  moths 
flying  about  the  burning  lamp;  one  he  rescued  from  a 
fiery  death  for  sheer  love  of  her.  Later  on  the  illusion 
of  her  presence  grew  so  intense  that  he  started  up  from 
his  chair  and  looked  round  for  her.  Had  he  not  felt 
her  breath  upon  his  cheek?  Her  very  perfume  had 
floated  past!  There  ...  it  had  gone  by  again!  No, 
it  was  not  she— only  the  syringa  breathing  in  the  window. 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Father  O'Grady. 

"  GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"June  2,  19 — . 

"  I  stayed  in  the  woods  all  day,"  he  wrote,  "  for  your 
letter  brought  me  such  happiness  that  I  could  not  return 
home;  and  my  thoughts  are  still  full  of  the  songs  of 
birds  and  the  scents  of  evening.  I  am  the  prey  of 
a  violent  reaction,  for  Miss  Leicester's  disappearance 
caused  me,  as  you"  rightly  surmise,  the  gravest  anxiety. 
Fear  is  a  terrible  thing.  When  her  name  was  mentioned, 
my  tongue  seemed  to  thicken  and  I  could  not  speak.  I 
have  seen  her  throwing  herself  into  the  river,  I  have 
seen  her  taken  out,  I  have  seen  her  about  to  take 
poison;  and  I  can  say  this,  that  if  I  caused  her  a  great- 
deal  of  suffering,  I  have  suffered  myself  at  least  as 

Si 


THE  LAKE 

much.  But  what  I  am  thinking  of  now  is  of  Miss 
Leicester's  goodness  in  allowing  you  to  write  to  me,  in 
order  that  I  might  be  spared  further  anxiety. 

"  I  wish  I  could  find  words  to  thank  you  for  what 
you  have  done;  and  I  dare  not  think  what  might  have 
happened  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you;  what  my  despair 
might  have  been,  and  whither  it  might  have  led  me.  I 
am  still  under  the  influence  of  the  emotion  that  your  let- 
ter caused  me,  and  can  hardly  collect  my  thoughts 
sufficiently  to  answer  your  questions  as  they  should  be 
answered.  I  can  only  say  that  Miss  Leicester  has  told 
her  story  truthfully.  As  to  your  reproofs,  I  accept  them, 
they  are  merited;  and  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  advice. 
I  am  glad  that  it  comes  from  an  Irishman,  and  I  would 
give  much  to  take  you  by  the  hand  and  to  thank  you 
again  and  again." 

Getting  up,  he  walked  out  of  the  room,  feeling  in  a 
way  that  a  calmer  and  more  judicious  letter  would  be 
preferable.  But  he  must  answer  Father  O'Grady,  and 
at  once;  the  letter  would  have  to  go.  And  in  this  re- 
solve he  walked  out  of  his  house  into  his  garden,  and 
stood  there  wondering  ^at  the  flower  life  growing  so 
peacefully,  free  from  pain. 

The  tall  Madonna  lilies  flourished  like  sculpture  about 
the  porch,  and  he  admired  their  tall  stems  and  leaves  and 
carven  blossoms,  thinking  how  they  would  die  without 
strife,  without  complaint.  The  sweetbriar  filled  the  air 
with  a  sweet,  applelike  smell;  and  there  was  the  lake 
shining  in  the  moonlight,  just  as  it  had  shone  a  thousand 

52 


THE   LAKE 

years  ago  when  the  raiders  returned  to  their  fortresses 
pursued  by  enemies.  He  could  just  distinguish  Castle 
Island,  and  he  wondered  what  this  lake  reminded  him  of : 
it  wound  in  and  out  of  gray  shores  and  headlands,  fading 
into  dim  pearl-colored  distance,  and  he  compared  it  to  a 
shroud,  and  then  to  a  ghost,  but  neither  comparison 
pleased  him.  It  was  like  something,  but  the  image  he 
sought  eluded  him.  At  last  he  remembered  how  in  a 
dream  he  had  seen  Rose  drowned.  She  wore  a  white 
dress,  and  this  lake  seemed  like  her;  there  were  her 
knees,  and  the  white  gown  floating,  filling  the  stream. 
"  I  am  only  thinking  nonsense,  but  no  matter.  Yes,  the 
lake  reminds  one  of  one's  guilt.  '  Every  man  has  a  lake 
in  his  heart.' ':  He  had  not  sought  the  phrase,  it  had 
come  suddenly  into  his  mind.  Yes,  "  every  man  has  a 
lake  in  his  heart."  He  sat  like  one  stupefied  in  his  chair, 
until  his  thoughts  took  fire  again,  and,  feeling  that  he 
must  write  to  Rose,  he  picked  up  the  pen. 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"June  2,  19 — . 

"  This  letter  will  surprise  you,  but  I  must  write  to 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  in  asking  Father  O'Grady 
to  send  me  a  letter.  It  appears  that  you  were  afraid  I 
might  be  anxious  about  you,  and  I  have  been  very 
anxious.  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal  since  you  left, 
and  it  is  a  great  relief  to  my  mind  to  hear  that  you  are 
safe  and  well.  I  can  understand  how  loath  you  were 
to  allow  Father  O'Grady  to  write  to  me;  he  doesn't  say 

53 


THE  LAKE 

in  his  letter  that  you  have  forgiven  me,  but  I  hope  that 
your  permission  to  him  to  relieve  my  anxiety  by  a  letter 
implies  your  forgiveness.  Father  O'Grady  writes  very 
kindly ;  it  appears  that  everyone  is  kind  except  me.  But 
I  am  thinking  of  myself  again,  of  the  ruin  that  it  would 
have  been  if  any  of  the  terrible  things  that  have  hap- 
pened to  others  had  happened  to  you.  But  I  cannot 
think  of  these  things  now ;  I  am  happy  in  thinking  that 
you  are  safe." 

The  evening  post  had  been  lost,  but  if  he  were  to 
walk  to  Bohola  he  would  catch  the  morning  mail,  and 
his  letter  would  be  in  her  hands  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
It  was  just  three  miles  to  Bohola,  and  the  walk  there, 
he  thought,  would  calm  the  extraordinary  spiritual  ela- 
tion that  news  of  Rose  had  kindled  in  his  brain.  The 
darkness  of  the  night  and  the  red,  shapeless  moon  low 
down  in  the  southern  horizon  suited  his  mood.  Once 
he  was  startled  by  a  faint  sigh  coming  from  a  horse 
looking  over  a  hedge,  and  the  hedgerows  were  full  of 
mysterious  little  cracklings.  Something  white  ran  across 
the  road.  "  The  white  belly  of  a  stoat,"  he  thought ;  and 
he  walked  on,  wondering  what  its  quest  might  be. 

The  road  led  him  through  a  heavy  wood,  and  when 
he  came  out  at  the  other  end  he  stopped  to  gaze  at 
the  stars,  for  already  a  grayness  seemed  to  have  come 
into  the  night.  The  road  dipped  and  turned,  twisting 
through  gray  fields  full  of  furze  bushes,  leading  to  a 
great  hill,  on  the  other  side  of  which  was  Bohola. 
When  he  entered  the  village  he  wondered  at  the  stillness 

54 


THE  LAKE 

of  its  street.  "  The  dawn  is  like  white  ashes,"  he  said, 
as  he  dropped  his  letters  into  the  box ;  and  he  was  glad 
to  get  away  from  the  shadowy  houses  into  the  country 
road.  The  daisies  and  the  dandelions  were  still  tightly 
shut,  and  in  the  hedgerow  a  half-awakened  chaffinch 
hopped  from  twig  to  twig,  too  sleepy  to  chirrup.  A  streak 
of  green  appeared  in  the  east,  and  the  deathlike  stillness 
was  broken  by  cockcrows.  He  could  hear  them  far 
away  in  the  country  and  close  by,  and  when  he  entered 
his  village  a  little  bantam  walked  up  the  road  shrilling 
and  clapping  his  wings,  advancing  to  the  fight.  The 
priest  admired  his  courage,  and  allowed  him  to  peck  at 
his  knees.  Close  by  Tom  Mulhare's  dorking  was  crow- 
ing hoarsely,  "a  hoarse  bass,"  said  the  priest,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  village  he  heard  a  bird  crowing  an  octave 
higher,  and  from  the  direction  he  guessed  it  must  be 
Catherine  Murphy's  bird.  Another  cock,  and  then  an- 
other. He  listened,  judging  their  voices  to  range  over 
nearly  three  octaves. 

The  morning  was  so  pure,  the  air  so  delicious,  and 
its  touch  so  exquisite  on  the  cheek,  that  he  could  not 
bear  even  to  think  of  a  close  bedroom  and  the  heat  of 
a  feather  bed.  He  went  to  walk  in  his  garden,  and  as 
he  passed  up  ancl  down  he  appreciated  the  beauty  of 
every  flower;  no  flower  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful  as 
the  anemones,  and  he  thought  of  Rose  Leicester  living 
in  a  grimy  London  lodging;  whereas  he  was  here  amid 
many  flowers — anemones  blue,  scarlet,  and  purple,  their 
heads  bent  down  on  their  stalks.  New  ones  were  push- 
ing up  to  replace  the  ones  that  had  blown  and  scattered 

55 


THE  LAKE 

the  evening  before.  The  gentians  were  not  yet  open, 
and  he  thought  how  they  would  look  in  a  few  hours — 
bluer  than  the  midday  sky.  He  passed  through  the 
wicket,  and  stood  on  the  hilltop  watching  the  mists  sink- 
ing lower.  The  dawn  light  strengthened — the  sky  filled 
with  pale  tints  of  emerald,  mauve,  and  rose.  A  cormorant 
opened  his  wings  and  flew  down  the  lake,  his  fellows 
followed  soon  after;  but  Father  Oliver  stood  on  the 
hilltop  waiting  for  daybreak.  At  last  a  red  ball  ap- 
peared behind  a  reddish  cloud;  its  color  changed  to  the 
color  of  flame,  paled  again,  and  at  four  flared  up  like 
a  rose-colored  balloon. 

The  day  had  begun,  and  he  turned  toward  his  house. 
But  he  couldn't  sleep;  the  house  was  repellent,  and  he 
waited  among  the  thorn  bushes  and  ferns.  Of  what  use 
to  lie  down  in  one's  bed  when  one  cannot  sleep?  His 
brain  was  clear  as  day,  and  he  felt  that  he  must  away 
to  woods  and  watersides. 

Life  is  orientated  like  a  temple;  there  are  in  every 
existence  days  when  life  streams  down  the  nave,  striking 
the  forehead  of  the  God,  and  during  his  long  life  Father 
Oliver  remembered,  and  looked  back  with  a  little  happy 
sadness  upon,  the  morning  when  he  invaded  the  pantry 
and  cut  large  slices  of  bread,  taking  the  butter  out  of  the 
old  red  crock.  He  wrapped  the  slices  in  paper  and  went 
away  to  the  woods  to  watch  the  birds  and  doze  under 
the  larches.  And  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  catch 
sight  of  an  otter  asleep  on  a  rock.  Toward  evening  he 
came  upon  a  wild  duck's  nest  in  the  sedge ;  many  of  the 
ducklings  had  broken  their  shells ;  these  struggled  after 

56 


THE   LAKE 

the  duck;  but  there  were  two  prisoners,  two  that  could 
not  escape  from  their  shells,  and,  seeing  their  little  lives 
would  be  lost  if  he  did  not  come  to  their  aid,  he  picked 
the  shells  away  and  took  them  to  the  water's  edge,  for  he 
had  heard  Catherine  say  that  one  could  almost  see  little 
ducks  growing  when  they  had  had  a  drop  of  water.  The 
old  duck  swam  about  uttering  a  whistling  sound,  her 
cry  that  her  ducklings  were  to  join  her.  And  thinking 
of  the  lives  he  had  saved,  he  felt  a  sudden  regret  that  he 
had  not  come  upon  the  nest  earlier,  when  Christy  brought 
him  Father  O'Grady's  letter. 

The  yacht  appeared  between  the  islands,  her  sails 
filled  with  wind,  and  he  began  to  dream  how  she  might 
cast  anchor  outside  the  reeds.  A  sailor  might  draw  a 
pinnace  alongside,  and  he  imagined  a  woman  being 
helped  into  it  and  rowed  to  the  landing  place.  But  the 
yacht  did  not  cast  anchor;  her  helm  was  put  up,  her 
boom  went  over,  and  she  went  away  on  another  tack.  He 
was  glad  of  his  dream,  though  it  endured  only  a  mo- 
ment, and  when  he  looked  up  a  great  gull  was  watching 
him.  The  bird  had  floated  so  near  that  he  could  see 
the  small  round  head  and  the  black  eyes ;  as  soon  as  he 
stirred  it  wheeled  and  floated  away.  Many  other  little 
adventures  happened  before  the  day  ended.  A  rabbit 
crawled  by  him  screaming,  for  he  could  run  no  longer, 
and  lay  waiting  for  the  weasel  that  appeared  out  of  the 
furze.  What  was  to  be  done?  Save  it  and  let  the 
weasel  go  supperless  ?  At  eight  the  moon  rose  over  Tin- 
nick,  and  it  was  a  great  sight  to  see  the  yellow  mass 
rising  above  the  faint  shores ;  and  while  he  stood  watch- 

52 


THE   LAKE 

ing  the  moon  an  idea  occurred  to  him  that  held  him 
breathless.  His  sister  had  written  to  him  some  days  ago 
asking  if  he  could  recommend  a  music  mistress  to  her. 
It  was  through  his  sister  that  he  might  get  Rose  back 
to  her  country,  and  it  was  through  his  sister  that  he 
might  make  atonement  for  the  wrong  he  had  done.  The 
letter  must  be  carefully  worded,  for  nuns  understood  so 
little,  they  were  so  estranged  from  the  world.  As  for 
his  sister  Mary,  she  would  not  understand  at  all — she 
would  oppose  him ;  but  Eliza  was  a  practical  woman,  and 
he  had  confidence  in  her  good  sense. 

He  entered  the  house,  and,  waving  Catherine  aside, 
who  reminded  him  that  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
his  dinner  the  day  before,  he  went  to  his  writing  table 
and  began  his  letter. 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  the  Mother  Abbess, 
Tinnick  Convent. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"June  3,  19—. 

"  My  DEAR  ELIZA  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  having  delayed  so 
long  to  answer  your  letter,  but  I  could  not  think  at  the 
moment  of  anyone  whom  I  could  recommend  as  music 
mistress,  and  I  laid  the  letter  aside,  hoping  that  an  idea 
would  come  to  me.  Well,  an  idea  has  come  to  me.  I 
do  not  think  you  will  find " 

The  priest  stopped,  and  after  thinking  awhile  he 
laid  down  his  pen  and  got  up.  The  sentence  he  had  been 

58 


THE   LAKE 

about  to  write  was,  "  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  anyone 
better  than  Miss  Leicester."  But  he  would  have  to  send 
Father  O'Grady's  letter  to  his  sister,  and  even  with 
Father  O'Grady's  letter,  and  all  that  he  might  add  of 
an  explanation,  she  would  hardly  be  able  to  understand ; 
and  Eliza  might  show  the  letter  to  Mary,  who  was 
prejudiced.  Father  Oliver  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  thinking.  ...  A  personal  interview  would  be 
better  than  the  letter,  for  in  a  personal  interview  he  would 
be  able  to  answer  his  sister's  objections ;  and  instead  of  the 
long  letter  he  had  intended  to  write  he  wrote  a  short 
note,  adding  that  he  had  not  seen  them  for  a  long  time, 
and  would  drive  over  to-morrow  afternoon. 


59 


THE  southern  road  was  the  shorter,  but  he 
wanted  to  see  Moran  and  to  hear  when  he 
proposed  to  begin  to  roof  the  abbey.  Father 
Oliver  thought,  moreover,  that  he  would  like  to  see  the 
abbey  for  a  last  time  in  its  green  mantle  of  centuries.  The 
distance  was  much  the  same — a  couple  of  miles  shorter 
by  the  southern  road,  no  doubt,  but  what  are  a  couple  of 
miles  to  an  old  roadster?  Moreover,  the  horse  would  rest 
in  Jimmy  Maguire's  stable  while  he  and  Moran  rambled 
about  the  ruin.  An  hour's  rest  would  compensate  the 
horse  for  the  two  extra  miles. 

He  tapped  the  glass;  there  was  no  danger  of  rain. 
For  thirty  days  there  had  been  no  change — only  a  few 
showers,  just  enough  to  keep  the  country  going;  and  he 
fell  asleep  thinking  of  the  drive  round  the  lake  from 
Garranard  to  Tinnick  in  the  sunlight  and  from  Tinnick 
to  Garranard  in  the  moonlight. 

He  was  out  of  bed  an  hour  before  his  usual  time, 
calling  to  Catherine  for  hot  water.  His  shaving,  always 
disagreeable,  sometimes  painful,  was  a  joyous  little  labor 
on  this  day.  Stropping  his  razor,  he  sang  from  sheer  joy 
of  living.  Catherine  had  never  seen  him  spring  on  the 
car  with  so  light  a  step.  And  away  went  the  old  gray, 
pulling  at  the  bridle,  little  thinking  of  the  twenty-five 
Irish  miles  that  lay  before  him. 

60 


THE   LAKE 

The  day  was  the  same  as  yesterday,  the  meadows  dry- 
ing up  for  want  of  rain ;  and  there  was  a  thirsty  chirrup- 
ing of  small  birds  in  the  hedgerows.  Everywhere  he 
saw  rooks  perched  on  the  low  walls  that  divided  the  fields, 
and  they  looked  tired  and  hot.  The  farmers  were  com- 
plaining; but  they  were  always  complaining— everyone 
was  complaining.  He  had  complained  of  the  dilatoriness 
of  the  Board  of  Works:  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
sympathized  a  little  with  the  board.  If  it  had  built  the 
bridge  he  would  not  be  enjoying  this  long  drive;  it  would 
be  built  by  and  by ;  he  couldn't  feel  as  if  he  wished  to  be 
robbed  of  one  half-hour  of  the  long  day  in  front  of  him ; 
and  he  liked  to  think  it  would  not  end  for  him  till  nine 
o'clock. 

"  These  summer  days  are  endless,"  he  said. 

After  passing  the  strait  the  lake  widened  out.  On 
the  side  the  priest  was  driving  the  shore  was  empty  and 
barren.  On  the  other  side  there  were  pleasant  woods 
and  interspaces  and  great  ruins.  Castle  Carra,  the  prin- 
cipal ruin,  appeared  at  the  end  of  a  headland,  a  great  ivy- 
grown  ruin  showing  among  thorn  bushes  and  ash  trees. 
In  bygone  times  the  castle  must  have  extended  to  the 
water's  edge,  for  on  every  side  fragments  of  arches  and 
old  walls  were  discovered  hidden  away  in  the  thickets. 
Father  Oliver  knew  the  headland  well  and  every  part  of 
the  old  fortress.  He  had  climbed  up  the  bare  wall  of  the 
banqueting  hall  to  where  a  breach  revealed  a  secret  stair- 
case built  between  the  walls,  and  had  followed  the 
staircase  to  a  long  straight  passage,  and  down  another 
staircase,  in  the  hope  of  finding  matchlock  pistols.  He 
6  61 


THE   LAKE 


had  wandered  in  the  dungeons,  and  had  listened  to  old 
stories  of  oubliettes.  .  .  . 

The  moat  which  had  cut  the  neck  of  land  was  now 
filled  up;  only  the  gateway  remained,  and  it  was  sinking 
— the  earth  was  claiming  it.  On  the  other  side  the  land 
had  been  terraced,  and  there  were  the  ruins  of  a  great 
house,  to  which  no  doubt  the  descendants  of  the  chief- 
tain had  retired  on  the  decline  of  brigandage.  And  the 
kind  of  life  that  had  been  lived  there  was  evidenced  by 
the  gigantic  stone  fox  on  a  pillar  in  the  middle  of  the 
courtyard,  and  the  great  hounds  on  either  side  of  the 
gateway. 

Castle  Carra  must  have  been  the  most  considerable 
castle  in  the  district  of  Tyrawley,  and  it  was  probably 
built  by  the  Welsh  who  invaded  Ireland  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  perhaps  by  William  Barrett  himself,  who  had 
certainly  built  the  castle  on  the  island  opposite  to  Father 
Oliver's  house. 

William  Fion  (i.  e.,  the  Fair)  Barrett  had  probably 
landed  somewhere  on  the  west  coast,  and  come  up 
through  the  great  gaps  between  Slieve  Cairn  and  Slieve 
Louan — it  was  not  likely  that  he  had  landed  on  the  east 
coast;  he  could  hardly  -have  marched  his  horde  across 
Ireland — and  Father  Oliver  imagined  the  Welshmen 
standing  on  the  very  hill  on  which  his  house  now  stood, 
and  Fion  telling  his  followers  to  build  a  castle  on  each 
island.  Patsy  Murphy,  who  knew  more  about  the  his- 
tory of  the  country  than  anyone,  thought  that  Castle 
Carra  was  of  later  date,  but  the  ruins  were  the  same. 
Over  yonder  was  the  famous  causeway,  and  the  gross 

62 


THE   LAKE 

tragedy  that  had  been  enacted  there  he  had  heard  from 
the  woodcutter  yesterday. 

William's  party  of  Welshmen  were  followed  by  other 
Welshmen — the  Cusacks,  the  Petits,  and  the  Brownes; 
and  these  in  time  fell  out  with  the  Barretts,  and  a  great 
battle  had  been  fought,  the  Battle  of  Moyne,  in  1281,  in 
which  William  Barrett  had  been  killed.  Notwithstand- 
ing their  defeat,  the  Barretts  had  held  the  upper  hand  of 
the  country  for  many  a  long  year,  and  the  priest  began 
to  smile,  thinking  of  the  odd  story  the  old  woodman  had 
told  him  about  the  Barretts'  steward,  Sgnorach  bhuid 
bhearrtha,  "  saving  your  reverence's  presence,"  the  old 
man  had  said;  and,  unable  to  translate  the  words  into 
English  fit  for  the  priest's  ears,  he  had  said  that  they 
meant  a  glutton  and  a  lewd  fellow. 

The  Barretts  had  sent  Sgnorach  bhuid  bhearrtha  to 
collect  rents  from  the  Lynotts,  another  group  of  Welsh- 
men, but  the  Lynotts  killed  him  and  threw  his  body  into 
a  well,  called  ever  afterward  Tobar  na  Sgornaighe  (the 
Well  of  the  Glutton),  near  the  townland  of  Moygawnagh, 
Barony  of  Tyrawley.  To  avenge  the  murder  of  their 
steward,  the  Barretts  assembled  an  armed  force,  and,  hav- 
ing defeated  the  Lynotts  and  captured  many  of  them, 
they  offered  their  prisoners  two  forms  of  mutilation :  they 
were  either  to  be  blinded  or  castrated.  After  taking 
counsel  with  their  wise  men,  the  Lynotts  had  chosen 
blindness;  for  blind  men  could  have  sons,  and  these  would 
doubtless  one  day  revenge  the  humiliation  that  was  being 
passed  upon  them.  A  horrible  story  it  was,  for  when 
their  eyes  had  been  thrust  out  with  needles  they  were 

63 


THE   LAKE 

led  to  a  causeway,  and  those  who  crossed  the  stepping 
stones  without  stumbling  were  taken  back  to  have  the 
needles  thrust  into  their  eyes  again;  and  the  priest 
thought  of  the  assembled  horde  laughing  as  the  poor 
blind  men  fell  into  the  water. 

The  story  rambled  on,  the  Lynotts  plotting  how  they 
could  be  revenged  on  the  Barretts,  but  the  blinding  of 
the  Lynotts  was  the  most  interesting  incident  in  it. 
How  the  Lynotts,  in  the  course  of  generations,  came  into 
their  vengeance  he  had  half  forgotten,  and,  instead  of  try- 
ing to  remember  the  story,  his  eyes  strayed  over  the 
landscape,  and  he  admired  the  sunlight  playing  along  the 
valley  or  lighting  up  a  sudden  scarp. 

The  road  followed  the  shore  of  the  lake,  sometimes 
turning  inland  to  avoid  a  hill  or  a  bit  of  bog,  but  return- 
ing back  again  to  the  shore,  finding  its  way  through  the 
fields,  if  they  could  be  called  fields — a  little  grass  and 
some  hazel  bushes  grew  here  and  there  between  the 
rocks.  Under  a  rocky  headland,  lying  within  embaying 
shores,  he  saw  Church  Island,  the  largest  island  in  the 
lake,  some  seven  or  eight  acres.  Trees  flourished  there, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  island  were  the  ruins  of  the 
church  from  which  the  island  took  its  name.  Only  an 
arch  remained  overgrown  with  bushes,  but  the  paved 
path  leading  from  the  church  to  the  hermit's  cell  could 
be  followed.  The  hermit  who  had  used  this  paved  path 
fourteen  hundred  years  ago  was  a  poet ;  and  Father  Oli- 
ver had  read  how  Marban  had  loved  "  the  sheiling  that 
no  one  knew  save  his  God,  the  ash  tree  on  the  hither 
side,  the  hazel  bush  beyond  it,  its  lintel  of  honeysuckle, 

64 


THE   LAKE 

the  wood  shedding  its  mast  upon  fat  swine."  And  he 
found  it  pleasanter  to  think  of  Ireland's  hermits  than  of 
Ireland's  savage  chieftains,  always  at  war,  striving  against 
each  other  along  the  shores  of  this  lake,  and  from  island 
to  island. 

His  thoughts  lingered  in  the  seventh  and  eighth  cen- 
turies, when  Ireland  had  given  herself  to  the  wise  guid- 
ance of  the  priests,  and  the  arts  were  fostered  in  mon- 
asteries— the  arts  of  gold  work  and  illuminated  missals. 
These  were  Ireland's  halcyon  days ;  a  deep  peace  brooded, 
and  under  the  guidance  of  the  monks  Ireland  was  the 
center  of  learning  when  all  the  rest  of  Europe  was  strug- 
gling in  barbarism.  There  had  been  a  renaissance  in  Ire- 
land centuries  before  a  gleam  of  light  had  appeared  in 
Italy  or  in  France.  But  in  the  middle  of  the  eighth  cen- 
tury the  Danes  arrived  to  pillage  the  country,  and  no 
sooner  were  they  driven  out  than  the  English  came  to 
continue  the  work  of  devastation,  and  never  since  had 
it  ceased.  Father  Oliver  wondered  if  God  were  reserv- 
ing the  bright  destiny  for  Ireland  which  He  had  with- 
held a  thousand  years  ago,  and  he  looked  out  for  the 
abbey  that  Roderick,  King  of  Connaught,  had  built  in  the 
twelfth  century. 

It  stood  on -a  knoll,  and  in  the  distance,  almost  hid- 
den in  bulrushes,  was  the  last  arm  of  the  lake.  "  How 
admirable!  how  admirable!  "  he  said,  for  Kilronan  Abbey 
seemed  to  him  strangely  evocative  of  ancient  Ireland  that 
morning,  and,  touched  by  the  beauty  of  the  ruins,  his 
doubts  returned  to  him  regarding  the  right  of  the  pres- 
ent to  lay  hands  on  these  great  wrecks  of  Ireland's  past. 

65 


THE   LAKE 

He  was  no  longer  sure  that  he  did  not  side  with  the 
archbishop,  who  was  against  the  restoration — for  en- 
tirely insufficient  reasons,  it  was  true.  "  Put  a  roof," 
Father  Oliver  said,  "  on  the  abbey,  and  it  will  look  like 
any  other  church,  and  another  link  will  be  broken. 
'  Which  is  the  better — a  great  memory  or  some  trifling 
comfort?'3  He  continued  to  ponder  this  question  till 
the  car  turned  the  corner  and  he  caught  sight  of  Father 
Moran,  "out  for  his  morning's  walk,"  he  said;  and  he 
compared  Father  Moran's  walk  up  and  down  the  high- 
road with  his  own  rambles  along  the  lake  shores  and 
through  the  pleasant  woods  of  Carnecun. 

For  seven  years  Father  Oliver  had  walked  up  and 
down  that  road ;  there  was  nowhere  else  for  him  to  walk ; 
and  he  remembered  he  had  hated  that  road,  but  he  did 
not  think  that  he  had  suffered  from  the  loneliness  of  the 
parish  as  much  as  Moran.  He  had  been  happier  than 
Moran  in  Bridget  Qery's  cottage — a  great  idea  had  en- 
abled him  to  forget  every  discomfort ;  we  are  never  lonely 
as  long  as  our  idea  is  with  us.  But  Moran  was  a  plain 
man,  without  ideas,  enthusiasms,  or  exaltations.  Nor 
did  he  care  for  reading,  or  for  a  flower  garden,  only 
for  drink.  "  Drink  gives  him  dreams,  and  man  must 
dream,"  he  said. 

Moran's  drunkenness  was  Father  Oliver's  anxiety. 
He  knew  his  curate  was  striving  to  cure  himself,  and  he 
believed  he  was  succeeding;  but,  all  the  same,  it  was  ter- 
rible to  think  the  temptation  might  overpower  him  at  any 
moment,  and  that  he  might  stagger  helpless  through  the 
village — a  very  shocking  example  to  everyone. 

66 


THE   LAKE 

The  people  were  prone  enough  in  that  direction,  and 
for  a  priest  to  give  scandal  instead  of  setting  a  good  ex- 
ample was  about  as  bad  as  anything  that  could  happen 
in  the  parish.  But  what  was  he  to  do?  There  was  no 
hard-and-fast  rule  about  anything,  and  Father  Oliver  felt 
that  Moran  must  have  his  chance. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  think  we  were  never  going  to 
see  you  again,"  and  Father  Moran  held  out  a  long,  hard 
hand  to  Father  Oliver.  "You'll  put  up  your  horse? 
Christy,  will  you  take  his  reverence's  horse?  You'll 
stay  and  have  some  dinner  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  stay  more  than  half  an  hour.  I'm  on  my 
way  to  Tinnick;  I've  business  with  my  sister,  and  it  will 
take  me  some  time." 

"  You  have  plenty  of  time." 

"  No,  I  haven't.  I  ought  to  have  taken  the  other 
road;  I'm  late  as  it  is." 

"  But  you  will  come  into  the  house,  if  only  for  a  few 
minutes." 

Father  Oliver  had  taught  Bridget  Clery  cleanliness; 
at  least,  he  had  persuaded  her  to  keep  the  fowls  out  of 
the  kitchen,  and  he  had  put  a  paling  in  front  of  the  house 
and  made  a  little  garden — an  unassuming  one,  it  is  true, 
but  a  pleasant  spot  of  color  in  the  summer  time — and  he 
wondered  how  it  was  that  Father  Moran  was  not  ashamed 
of  its  neglected  state,  nor  of  the  widow's  kitchen.  These 
things  were,  after  all,  immaterial.  What  was  important 
was  that  he  should  find  no  faintest  trace  of  whisky  in 
Moran's  room;  it  was  a  great  relief  to  him  not  to  notice 
any;  and  no  doubt  that  was  why  Moran  had  insisted  on 

6? 


THE   LAKE 

bringing  him  into  the  house.     The  specifications  were  a 
pretext.     He  had  to  glance  at  them,  however. 

"  No  doubt  if  the  abbey  is  to  be  roofed  at  all  the  best 
roof  is  the  one  you  propose." 

"  Then  you  side  with  the  archbishop  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  do  in  a  way,  but  for  different  reasons.  I 
know  very  well,  however,  that  the  people  won't  kneel  in 
the  rain.  Is  it  really  true  that  he  opposes  the  roofing  of 
the  abbey  on  account  of  the  legend?  I  have  heard  the 
legend,  but  there  are  many  variants.  Let's  go  to  the 
abbey  and  you'll  tell  the  story  on  the  way." 

"  You  see,  he'll  only  allow  a  portion  of  the  abbey  to 
be  roofed." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  he  is  so  senile  and  super- 
stitious as  that?  Then  the  reason  of  his  opposition  really 
is  that  he  believes  his  death  to  be  implicit  in  the  roofing 
of  Kilronan." 

"  Unquestionably;  "  and  the  priests  turned  out  of  the 
main  road. 

"  How  beautiful  it  looks !  "  and  Father  Oliver  stopped 
to  admire. 

The  abbey  stood  on  one  of  the  lower  slopes,  on  a  knoll, 
overlooking  rich  water  meadows,  formerly  abbatial  lands. 

"  The  legend  says  that  the  abbey  shall  be  roofed 
when  a  De  Stanton  is  abbot,  and  the  McEvillys  were 
originally  De  Stantons ;  they  changed  their  name  in  the 
fifteenth  century  on  account  of  a  violation  of  sanctuary 
committed  by  them.  A  roof  shall  be  put  on  those  walls, 
the  legend  says,  when  a  De  Stanton  is  again  abbot  of 
Kilronan,  and  the  abbot  shall  be  slain  on  the  highroad." 

68 


THE   LAKE 


"  And  to  save  himself  from  a  violent  death,  he  will 
only  allow  you  to  roof  a  portion  of  the  abbey.  Now,  what 
reason  does  he  give  for  such  an  extraordinary  decision?  " 

"Are  bishops  ever  expected  to  have  reasons?" 

The  priests  laughed,  and  Father  Oliver  said:  "We 
might  appeal  to  Rome." 

"  A  lot  of  good  that  would  do  us.  Haven't  we  all 
heard  the  archbishop  say  that  any  of  his  priests  who  ap- 
peals to  Rome  against  him  will  get  the  worst  of  it?  " 

"  I  wonder  that  he  dares  to  defy  popular  opinion  in 
this  way." 

"  What  popular  opinion  is  there  to  defy?  Wasn't 
Patsy  Donovan  saying  to  me  only  yesterday  that  the 
archbishop  was  a  brave  man  to  be  letting  any  roof  at  all 
on  the  abbey?  And  Patsy  is  the  best-educated  man  in 
this  part  of  the  country." 

"  People  will  believe  anything." 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

And  the  priests  stopped  at  the  grave  of  Seaghan  na 
Soggarth,  or  "  John  of  the  Priests,"  and  Father  Oliver 
told  Father  Moran  how  a  young  priest,  who  had  lost  his 
way  in  the  mountains,  had  fallen  in  with  Seaghan  na 
Soggarth.  Seaghan  offered  to  put  him  into  the  right 
road,  but  instead- of  doing  so  he  led  him  to  his  house, 
and  closed  the  door  on  him,  and  left  him  there  tied  hand 
and  foot.  Seaghan's  sister,  who  still  clung  to  religion, 
loosed  the  priest,  and  he  fled,  passing  Seaghan,  who  was 
on  his  way  to  fetch  the  soldiers.  Seaghan  followed  after, 
and  on  they  went  like  hare  and  hound  till  they  got  to  the 
abbey.  There  the  priest,  who  could  run  no  farther, 

69 


THE  LAKE 

turned  on  his  foe,  and  they  fought  until  the  priest  got 
hold  of  Seaghan's  knife  and  killed  him  with  it. 

"  But  you  know  the  story.    Why  am  I  telling  it  to 


you 


"  I  only  know  that  the  priest  killed  Seaghan.  Is  there 
any  more  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  more." 

And  Father  Oliver  went  on  to  tell  it,  though  he  did 
not  feel  that  Father  Moran  would  be  interested  in  the 
legend;  he  would  not  believe  that  it  had  been  prophesied 
that  an  ash  tree  should  grow  out  of  the  buried  head,  and 
that  one  of  the  branches  should  take  root  and  pierce 
Seaghan's  heart.  And  he  was  right  in  suspecting  his 
curate's  lack  of  sympathy.  Father  Moran  at  once  ob- 
jected that  the  ash  tree  had  not  yet  sent  down  a  branch 
to  pierce  the  priest-killer's  heart. 

"  Not  yet;  but  this  branch  nearly  touches  the  ground, 
and  there's  no  saying  that  it  won't  take  root  in  a  few 
years." 

"  But  his  heart  is  there  no  longer." 

"Well,  no,"  said  Father  Oliver,  "it  isn't;  but  if  one 
is  to  argue  that  way,  no  one  would  listen  to  a  story 
at  all." 

Father  Moran  held  his  peace  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  he  began  talking  about  the  penal  times,  telling  how 
religion  in  Ireland  was  another  form  of  love  of  country, 
and  that,  if  Catholics  were  intolerant  to  every  form  of 
heresy,  it  was  because  they  instinctively  felt  that  the 
questioning  of  any  dogma  would  mean  some  slight  sub- 
sidence from  the  idea  of  nationality  that  held  the  people 

70 


THE  LAKE 


together.  Like  the  ancient  Jews,  the  Irish  believed  that 
the  faith  of  their  forefathers  could  bring  them  into  their 
ultimate  inheritance;  this  was  why  a  proselytizer  was 
hated  so  intensely. 

"  More  opinions,"  Father  Oliver  said  to  himself.  "  I 
wonder  he  can't  admire  that  ash  tree,  and  be  interested  in 
the  story,  which  is  quaint  and  interesting,  without  trying 
to  draw  a  historical  parallel  between  the  Irish  and  the 
Jews.  Anyhow,  thinking  is  better  than  drinking,"  and 
he  jumped  on  his  car.  The  last  thing  he  heard  was 
Moran's  voice  saying,  "  He  who  betrays  his  religion  be- 
trays his  country." 

"  Confound  the  fellow,  bothering  me  with  his  preach- 
ing on  this  fine  summer's  day!  Much  better  if  he  did 
what  he  was  told,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  put  the  small 
green  slates  on  the  abbey,  and  not  those  coarse  blue 
things  which  will  make  the  abbey  look  like  a  common 
barn." 

Then,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  he  peered 
through  the  sun  haze,  following  the  shapes  of  the  fields. 
The  corn  was  six  inches  high,  and  the  potatoes  were 
coming  into  blossom.  True,  there  had  been  a  scarcity 
of  water,  but  they  had  had  a  good  summer,  thanks  be  to 
God,  and  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  the  country  look- 
ing so  beautiful.  And  he  loved  this  country,  this  poor 
Western  plain  with  shapely  mountains  inclosing  the  hori- 
zon. Ponies  were  feeding  between  the  whins,  and  they 
raised  their  shaggy  heads  to  watch  the  car  passing.  In 
the  distance  cattle  were  grazing,  whisking  the  flies  away. 
How  beautiful  was  everything — the  white  clouds  hanging 

71 


THE   LAKE 

in  the  blue  sky,  and  the  trees! — there  were  some  trees, 
but  not  many — only  a  few  pines.  He  caught  glimpses  of 
the  lake  through  the  stems;  and  tears  rose  to  his  eyes, 
so  intense  was  his  happiness,  and  he  attributed  his  happi- 
ness to  his  native  land  and  to  the  thought  that  he  was 
living  in  it.  Only  a  few  days  ago  he  had  wished  to  leave 
it — no,  not  forever,  but  for  a  time;  and  as  his  old  car 
jogged  through  the  ruts  he  wondered  how  it  was  that  he 
had  ever  wished  to  leave  Ireland,  even  for  a  single  minute. 

"  Now,  Christy,  which  do  you  reckon  to  be  the  shorter 
road?" 

"  The  shorter  road,  your  reverence,  is  the  Joycetown 
road,  but  I  doubt  if  we  can  get  the  car  through  it." 

"How  is  that?" 

And  the  boy  answered  that  since  the  Big  House  had 
been  burnt  the  road  hadn't  been  kept  in  repair. 

"  But,"  said  Father  Oliver,  "  the  Big  House  was  burnt 
seventy  years  ago." 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  you  see,  it  was  a  good  road 
then,  but  the  last  time  I  heard  of  a  car  going  that  way 
was  last  February." 

"  And  if  a  car  got  through  in  February,  why  can't  we 
get  through  on  the  first  of  June?  " 

"  Well,  your  reverence,  there  was  the  storm,  and  I  do 
be  hearing  that  the  trees  that  fell  across  the  road  then 
haven't  been  removed  yet." 

"  I  think  we  might  try  the  road,  for  all  that,  for  though 
if  we  have  to  walk  the  greater  part  of  it,  there  will  be  a 
saving  in  the  end." 

"  That's  true,  your  reverence,  if  we  can  get  the  car 
72 


THE   LAKE 

through ;  but  if  we  can't  we  may  have  to  come  all  the  way 
back  again." 

"  Well,  Christy,  we'll  have  to  risk  that.  Now,  will 
you  be  turning  the  horse  up  the  road?  And  I'll  stop  at 
the  Big  House — I've  never  been  inside  it.  I'd  like  to 
see  what  it  is  like." 

Joycetown  House  was  the  last  link  between  the  pres- 
ent time  and  the  past.  In  the  beginning  of  the  century 
a  duellist  had  lived  there;  the  terror  of  the  countryside 
he  had  become,  for  he  had  never  been  known  to  miss  his 
man.  For  the  slightest  offense,  real  or  imaginary,  he 
sent  seconds  demanding  redress.  No  more  than  his 
ancestors,  who  had  doubtless  lived  on  the  islands,  in 
Castle  Island  and  Castle  Hag,  could  he  live  without  fight- 
ing. But  when  he  had  completed  his  round  dozen,  a 
priest  had  said,  "  If  we  don't  put  a  stop  to  his  fighting, 
there  won't  be  a  gentleman  left  in  the  country,"  and  had 
written  to  him  to  that  effect. 

The  story  runs  how  Joyce,  knowing  the  feeling  of  the 
country  was  against  him,  had  tried  to  keep  the  peace. 
But  the  blood  fever  came  on  him  again,  and  he  had  called 
out  his  nearest  neighbor,  Browne  of  the  Neale,  the  only 
friend  he  had  in  the  world.  Browne  lived  at  Neale 
House,  just  over,  the  border,  in  County  Galway,  so  the 
gentlemen  arranged  to  fight  in  a  certain  field  near  the 
mearing.  It  was  Browne  of  Neale  who  was  the  first  to 
arrive.  Joyce,  having  to  come  a  dozen  miles,  was  a  few 
minutes  late.  As  soon  as  his  gig  was  seen,  the  people, 
who  had  been  in  hiding,  came  out,  and  didn't  they  put 
themselves  between  him  and  Browne!  They  were  all 

73 


THE   LAKE 

armed  with  pitchforks,  and  didn't  they  tell  him  up  to  his 
face  there  was  to  be  no  fighting  that  day!  And  the  priest, 
who  was  at  the  head  of  them,  said  the  same;  but  Joyce, 
who  knew  his  countrymen,  paid  no  heed,  but  stood  up  in 
the  gig,  and,  looking  round  him,  said,  "  Now,  boys,  which 
is  it  to  be?  The  Mayo  cock  or  the  Galway  cock?  "  In 
spite  of  all  the  priest  could  say,  didn't  they  all  begin  to 
cheer  him,  and  they  carried  him  into  the  field  in  which 
he  shot  Browne  of  the  Neale.  .  .  . 

"  A  queer  people,  the  queerest  in  the  world,"  Father 
Oliver  thought,  as  he  pulled  a  thorn  bush  out  of 
the  doorway  and  stood  looking  round.  There  were 
some  rough  chimney  pieces  high  up  in  the  grass- 
grown  walls,  but  beyond  these  really  nothing  to  be  seen, 
and  he  wandered  out  seeking  traces  of  terraces  along 
the  hillside. 

On  meeting  a  countryman  out  with  his  dogs  he  tried 
to  inquire  about  the  state  of  the  road. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  saying,  your  reverence,  that  you 
mightn't  get  the  car  through  by  keeping  close  to  the  wall; 
but  Christy  mustn't  let  the  horse  out  of  a  walk." 

The  countryman  said  he  would  go  a  piece  of  the  road 
with  them,  and  tell  Christy  the  spots  he'd  have  to  look 
out  for. 

"  But  your  work?  " 

"  There's  no  work  doing  now  to  speak  of,  your  rev- 
erence." 

The  three  of  them  together  just  managed  to  remove  a 
fallen  tree.  This  seemed  the  most  serious  obstacle,  and 
the  countryman  said  once  they  were  over  the  top  of  the 

74 


THE   LAKE 

hill  they  would  be  all  right;  the  road  wasn't  so  bad  after 
that. 

Half  a  mile  farther  on  Father  Oliver  found  himself  in 
sight  of  the  main  road,  and  of  the  cottage  that  his  sister 
Mary  had  lived  in  before  she  joined  Eliza  in  the  convent. 

To  have  persuaded  Mary  to  take  this  step  proved 
Eliza's  superiority  more  completely  than  anything  else 
she  had  done,  so  Father  Oliver  had  said.  He  had  always 
felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  say  what  mightn't  have  hap- 
pened to  poor  Mary  if  she  had  remained  in  the  world. 
Her  life  up  to  the  time  she  entered  the  convent  had  been 
nothing  but  a  series  of  failures.  She  had  been  a  shop 
assistant,  but  standing  behind  the  counter  gave  her  vari- 
cose veins,  and  she  had  gone  to  a  situation  in  Dublin  as 
nursery  governess.  Father  Oliver  had  heard  of  musical 
studies:  she  used  to  play  the  guitar.  But  the  scope  of 
the  instrument  was  limited;  she  had  given  it  up,  and  re- 
turned to  Tinnick  with  the  intention  of  starting  a  rabbit 
and  poultry  farm.  Who  had  put  this  idea  into  her  head 
it  was  impossible  to  say.  When  he  received  Eliza's  let- 
ter telling  him  of  this  last  experiment,  he  had  thrown  up 
his  hands.  Of  course,  it  could  only  end  in  failure,  in  a 
great  loss  of  money ;  and  when  he  read  that  she  was  going 
to  take  the  pretty  .cottage  on  the  road  to  Tinnick,  he  had 
become  suddenly  sad. 

"  Why  should  she  have  selected  that  cottage,  the  only 
pretty  one  in  the  county?  Wouldn't  any  other  do  just 
as  well  for  her  foolish  experiment  ?  " 


75 


THE  flowered  cottage  on  the  road  to  Tinnick 
stood  in  the  midst  of  trees,  on  a  knoll  some 
few  feet  above  the  roadway,  and  Father 
Oliver,  when  he  was  a  boy,  used  to  walk  out  by  himself 
from  Tinnick  to  see  the  hollyhocks  and  the  sunflowers; 
they  overtopped  the  palings,  the  sunflowers  looking  like 
saucy  country  girls  and  the  hollyhocks  like  grand  ladies, 
delicate  and  refined,  in  pink  muslin  dresses.  He  used  to 
stand  by  the  gate  looking  into  the  garden,  delighted  by 
its  luxuriance.  There  were  clumps  of  sweet  pea  and 
beds  of  red  carnations  and  roses  everywhere,  and  he 
always  remembered  the  violets  and  pansies  he  had  seen 
the  last  time  he  looked  into  the  garden.  It  was  just 
before  he  went  away  to  Maynooth.  He  never  remem- 
bered seeing  the  garden  in  bloom  again.  He  was  seven 
years  at  Maynooth,  and  when  he  came  home  for  his 
vacations  it  was  too  late  or  too  early  in  the  season,  or 
he  had  never  happened  to  pass  that  way.  He  was  in- 
terested in  other  things,  and  had  forgotten  the  garden. 
During  his  curacy  at  Kilronan  he  rarely  went  to  Tinnick, 
and  when  he  did  he  took  the  other  road,  so  that  he  might 
see  Father  Peter. 

It  was  practically  certain  that  the  last  time  he  saw 
the  garden  in  bloom  was  just  before  he  went  to  Maynooth. 

76 


THE  LAKE 

However  this  might  be,  it  was  certain  he  would  never 
see  it  in  bloom  again.  Mary  had  left  the  cottage  and  the 
garden  a  ruin  and  a  waste.  It  was  sad  to  think  of  the 
clean  thick  thatch  and  the  whitewashed  walls  covered 
with  creeper  and  China  roses,  for  now  the  thatch  was 
black  and  moldy,  and  the  roof  was  sagging.  The  doors 
were  broken,  and  barely  held  together;  and  the  garden 
was  a  still  more  disgraceful  sight.  Only  a  few  stocks 
survived;  the  rose  trees  were  all  gone — the  rabbits  had 
eaten  them,  and  they  had  barked  the  fruit  trees.  There 
was  nothing  but  weeds;  they  overtopped  the  currant 
and  gooseberry  bushes;  here  and  there  was  a  trace 
of  box  edging.  "  In  a  few  more  years,"  he  said,  "  the 
roof  will  fall  in,  and  the  garden  will  become  part  of  the 
waste." 

Then  his  eyes  roved  over  the  waste  country  into  which 
he  was  going — a  meager  black  soil,  with  here  and  there  a 
thorn  bush  and  a  peasant's  cabin.  And  this  waste  coun- 
try reached  very  nearly  to  the  town  of  Tinnick.  Father 
Oliver  knew  every  potato  field  and  the  shape  of  every 
distant  wood ;  this  road  reminded  him  perhaps  more  in- 
timately than  anything  of  his  early  life — of  the  dream 
behind  him.  He  watched  the  shape  of  the  fields,  knowing 
quite  well  the  exact  moment  when  meadows  would 
appear.  .  .  .  And  there  they  were !  He  could  see  them 
through  the  elms,  the  sun  shining  on  them  just  as  of 
yore,  and  the  cattle  grazing  there.  The  town  pavement 
ended  at  these  elms,  and  he  remembered  how  he  used  to 
look  on  this  pavement  as  a  sign  where  the  life  of  the 
town  began.  Beyond  this  pavement  was  the  loneliness  of 
6  77 


THE   LAKE 

the  country.  He  had  not  been  this  way  for  a  long 
while,  and  in  his  present  mood  of  mind  he  looked  for- 
ward to  every  well-remembered  aspect — to  the  high  wall 
on  the  left  hand.  That  wall  used  to  be  one  of  his  childish 
admirations.  Only  when  a  tree  fell  and  gapped  it  had 
he  been  able  to  get  a  glimpse  of  what  lay  beyond;  and 
he  remembered  how  he  used  to  climb  up  these  gaps,  and 
stand  on  tiptoe  watching  the  sunlight  and  the  shadows 
streaming  over  the  deep  meadow  grass.  Peace  and 
beauty  brooded  there;  and  when  the  moon  rose  up 
through  the  branches,  and  hung  round  and  yellow  on  a 
gray  dusky  sky,  the  park  seemed  more  than  ever  won- 
derful. 

A  great  nobleman  lived  there  occasionally;  he  came 
there  every  two  years  for  the  summer  months,  bringing 
friends  with  him.  The  whole  town  was  supposed  to 
hate  this  man,  for  he  cared  nothing  for  Ireland,  and 
was  said  to  be  a  man  of  loose  living ;  he  was  credited  with 
loving  his  friend's  wife,  and  she  used  to  come  there 
sometimes  with  her  husband,  sometimes  without  him, 
and  he  remembered  seeing  her  driving  past.  "  The  sight 
of  old  places  quickens  memory,"  he  said.  This  woman 
was  dead,  so  was  the  lord  who  loved  her.  No  one  spoke 
of  them  now;  Father  Oliver  had  not  given  them  a 
thought  these  many  years;  he  might  never  think  of  her 
again.  Therefore  he  wondered  what  could  have  put 
thoughts  of  this  dead  woman  into  his  mind.  Was  it  the 
sight  of  the  ugly  cottages  about  the  market  place,  with- 
out cleanliness  and  without  light  ?  She  had  done  nothing 
to  alleviate  the  lives  of  these  poor  folk,  and  it  might 

78 


THE  LAKE 

have  been  those  cottages  that  had  put  thoughts  of  her 
into  his  mind.  Or  the  cause  might  have  been  that  he 
was  going  to  offer  Rose  Leicester  to  his  sister  as  music 
mistress.  But  what  connection  between  Rose  Leicester 
and  this  dead  woman?  Well,  he  was  going  to  propose 
Rose  Leicester  to  Eliza,  and  the  best  line  of  argument 
would  be  that  Rose  would  cost  less  than  anyone  as  highly 
qualified  as  she.  Nuns  were  always  anxious  to  get  things 
cheap,  but  he  must  not  let  them  get  Rose  too  cheap.  But 
the  question  of  price  wouldn't  arise  between  him  and 
Eliza.  Eliza  would  see  the  wrong  he  had  done  to  Rose 
was  preying  on  his  conscience,  and  that  he'd  never  be 
happy  until  he  had  made  atonement — that  was  the  light 
in  which  she  would  view  the  matter,  so  it  would  be  better 
to  let  things  take  their  natural  course  and  to  avoid  making 
plans.  The  more  he  thought  of  what  he  should  say  to 
Eliza,  the  less  likely  was  he  to  speak  effectively;  and 
feeling  that  he  had  better  rely  on  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment,  he  sought  distraction  from  his  errand  by  noting 
the  beauty  of  the  hillside.  He  had  always  liked  the  way 
the  road  dipped  and  then  ascended  steeply  to  the  principal 
street  in  the  town.  There  were  some  pretty  houses  in  the 
dip — houses  with  narrow  doorways  and  long  windows, 
built,  no  doubt,  in  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury— and  his  ambition  had  once  been  to  live  in  one  of 
these  houses. 

The  bridge  was  an  eighteenth-century  bridge,  with 
a  foaming  weir  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right  there  was 
a  sentimental  walk  under  linden  trees,  and  the  ruined 
mills  showing  against  the  sunset.  There  were  generally 

79 


THE  LAKE 

some  boys  seated  on  the  parapet,  and  their  fishing  rods 
were  picturesque  in  the  lingering  light. 

Never  had  the  gray  mills  seemed  more  melancholy, 
more  bygone,  and  he  would  have  stopped  the  car,  so  re- 
mote did  they  seem — so  like  things  of  long  ago  that  time 
had  mercifully  weaned  from  the  stress  and  struggle  of 
life. 

At  the  corner  of  the  main  street  was  the  house  in 
which  he  had  been  born.  The  business  had  passed  into 
other  hands,  but  the  old  name — "  Gogarty's  Drapery 
Stores  " — remained.  Across  the  way  were  the  butcher 
and  the  grocer,  and  a  little  higher  up  the  inn  at  which 
the  commercial  travelers  lodged;  he  remembered  how 
their  numerous  leather  trunks  used  to  interest  him,  and 
for  a  moment  he  stood  a  child  again,  seeing  them  drive 
away  on  post  cars.  There  were  a  few  more  shops — very 
few — and  then  the  town  dwindled  very  quickly;  slated 
roofs  gave  way  to  thatched  cottages,  and  of  the  same 
miserable  kind  that  used  to  provoke  his  antipathy  when 
he  was  a  boy. 

This  sinful  dislike  of  poverty  he  had  overcome  in  early 
manhood.  A  high  religious  enthusiasm  had  enabled  him 
to  overcome  it,  but  his  instinctive  dislike  of  the  lowly 
life — intellectual  lowliness  as  well  as  physical — gathered 
within  these  cottages,  seemed  to  have  returned  again. 
And  perforce  he  asked  himself  if  he  were  wanting  in 
natural  compassion,  if  all  that  he  had  of  goodness  in  him 
were  a  debt  he  owed  to  the  Church.  Maybe  it  was  in 
patience  rather  than  in  compassion  that  he  was  lacking ; 
and  pursuing  this  idea,  he  remembered  the  hopes  he  en- 

80 


THE   LAKE 

tertained  when  he  railed  off  a  strip  of  ground  in  front 
of  Bridget  Clery's  house.  They  were  that  his  example 
might  inspire  others.  Eliza  was  perhaps  more  patient, 
and  he  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  any  definite  aim 
in  view,  and  if  the  spectacle  of  the  convent,  with  its 
show  of  nuns  walking  under  the  trees  in  the  afternoon, 
would  eventually  awaken  some  desire  of  refinement  in 
the  people,  if  the  money  their  farms  now  yielded  would 
produce  some  sort  of  improvement  in  their  cottages,  the 
removal  of  those  dreadfully  heavy  smells,  and  a  longing 
for  color  that  would  find  expression  in  the  planting  of 
flowers. 

They  gave  their  money  willingly  enough  for  the 
adornment  of  their  chapel,  for  stained  glass,  incense, 
candles,  and  for  music,  and  were  it  not  for  the  services 
of  the  Church  he  didn't  know  into  what  barbarism  the 
people  mightn't  have  fallen :  the  tones  of  the  organ  sus- 
taining clear  voices  of  nuns  singing  a  Mass  by  Mozart 
must  sooner  or  later  inspire  belief  in  the  friendliness  of 
pure  air  and  the  beauty  of  flowers.  Flowers,  after  all,  are 
the  only  beautiful  things  within  the  reach  of  these  poor 
people.  Roses  are  happily  within  the  reach  of  all.  There 
is  nothing  more  entirely  natural  or  charming  in  the  life 
of  man  than  his  love  of  flowers :  it  preceded  his  love  of 
music;  no  doubt  an  appreciation  of  something  better  in 
the  way  of  art  than  a  jig  played  on  the  pipes  would  follow 
close  on  the  purification  of  the  home. 

Rose  Leicester  was  herself  beautiful,  her  personality 
was  winning  and  charming;  her  playing — above  all,  her 
singing — might  have  inspired  the  people,  but  she  was 

81 


THE   LAKE 

going  to  the  convent.  The  convent  had  got  her.  It  was 
a  pity — and  he  remembered  how  angry  Mrs.  O'Mara's 
news,  fabrications,  had  made  him — that  Eliza  had  said 
she  could  give  Rose  more  than  she  was  earning  in  Gar- 
ranard  to  come  to  the  convent  to  teach  music.  He  didn't 
believe  Eliza  had  ever  said  such  a  thing.  It  mattered 
very  little.  Anyhow,  he  begrudged  the  convent  Rose. 
Eliza  was  going  to  get  her,  and  cheaply.  All  he  could  do 
would  be  to  make  the  best  terms  he  could. 

But  he  could  not  constrain  his  thoughts  to  the, pres- 
ent moment.  They  would  go  back  to  the  fateful  afternoon 
when  he  ran  across  the  fields  to  ask  Rose  if  what  Mrs. 
O'Mara  had  said  of  her  were  true.  If  he  had  only 
waited!  If  she  had  come  to  him  to  confession  on  Sat- 
urday, as  he  expected  she  would !  If  something  had  pre- 
vented him  from  preaching  on  Sunday!  A  bad  cold 
might  have  prevented  him  from  speaking,  and  she  might 
have  gone  away  for  a  while,  and,  when  her  baby  was 
born,  she  might  have  come  back.  It  could  have  been 
easily  arranged.  But  Fate  had  ordered  her  life  other- 
wise, and  here  he  was  in  the  convent,  hoping  to  make 
her  some  poor  amends  for  the  wrong  he  had  done  her. 
Would  Eliza  help  him? — that  was  the  question,  and  he 
crossed  the  beeswaxed  floor  and  stood  looking  at  the 
late  afternoon  sunlight  glancing  through  the  trees,  fall- 
ing across  the  greensward. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Oliver?  " 

His  face  lighted  up,  but  it  changed  expression  and 
became  gray  again.  He  had  expected  to  see  Eliza,  tall 
and  thin,  with  yellow  eyebrows  and  pale  eyes.  Hers  was 

82 


THE   LAKE 

a  good,  clearly  cut  face,  like  his  own,  where  as  Mary's 
was  quite  different.  Yet  a  family  likeness  stared  through 
a  face  heavy  and  white.  Her  eyes  were  smaller  than 
his,  and  she  already  began  to  raise  them  and  lower  them, 
and  to  look  at  him  askance,  in  just  the  way  he  hated. 
Somehow  or  other  she  always  contrived  to  make  him 
feel  uncomfortable,  and  the  present  occasion  was  no  ex- 
ception. She  was  already  reproving  him,  hoping  he  was 
not  disappointed  at  seeing  her,  and  he  had  to  explain 
that  he  had  expected  to  see  Eliza,  and  that  was  why 
he  had  looked  surprised.  She  must  not  confuse  sur- 
prise with  disappointment.  He  was  very  glad  to  see  her. 

"  I  know  I  am  not  as  interesting  as  Eliza,"  she 
began,  "but  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  me,  and 
if  I  hadn't  come  at  once  I  shouldn't  have  had  an  op- 
portunity of  seeing  you  alone." 

"  She  has  something  to  confide,"  Father  Oliver  said 
to  himself,  and  he  hoped  that  her  confidences  might  be 
cut  short  by  the  timely  arrival  of  Eliza. 

"  Eliza  is  engaged  at  present.  She  told  Sister  Agatha 
to  tell  you  that  she  would  be  with  you  presently.  I  met 
Sister  Agatha  in  the  passage,  and  I  said  I  would  take 
the  message  myself.  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have  done 
so,  but  if  I  hadnjt  I  shouldn't  have  had  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  with  you." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"  I  don't  think  she  likes  me  to  see  you  alone." 

"My  dear  Mary!" 

"  You  don't  know,  Oliver,  what  it  is  to  live  in  a 
convent,  and  your  own  sister  the  head  of  it." 

83 


THE   LAKE 

"  I  should  have  thought,  Mary,  that  it  was  especially 
pleasant,  and  that  you  were  especially  fortunate.  And 
as  for  thinking  that  Eliza  is  not  wishing  you  to  see  me 
alone,  I  am  sure " 

"  You  are  sure  I'm  mistaken." 

"  What  reason  could  she  have  ?  " 

"  Eliza  doesn't  wish  the  affairs  of  the  convent  dis- 
cussed. You  know,  I  suppose,  that  the  building  of  the 
new  wing  has  put  a  burden  of  debt  on  the  convent." 

"  I  know  that ;  so  why  should  Eliza " 

"  Eliza  tries  to  prevent  my  seeing  any  of  the  visitors. 
Now,  do  you  think  that  quite  right  and  fair  toward  one's 
sister?" 

Father  Oliver  tried  to  prevent  himself  from  smiling, 
but  he  sympathized  so  entirely  with  Eliza's  efforts  to 
prevent  Mary  from  discussing  the  affairs  of  the  convent 
that  he  could  hardly  keep  down  the  smile  that  rose  to 
his  lips.  He  could  see  Eliza's  annoyance  on  coming  into 
the  parlor  and  finding  Mary  detailing  all  the  gossip  and 
confiding  her  own  special  woes,  for  the  most  part  imagi- 
nary, to  a  visitor.  Nor  would  Mary  refrain  from  touch- 
ing on  the  reverend  mother's  shortcomings.  He  was 
so  much  amused  that  he  might  have  smiled  if  he  had 
not  suddenly  remembered  that  Mary  might  leave  the 
convent  and  insist  on  coming  to  live  with  him;  and  the 
idea  so  frightened  him  that  he  began  to  think  of  what 
he  could  say  to  pacify  her.  In  the  midst  of  his  con- 
fusion and  embarrassment  he  remembered  suddenly  that 
Mary  had  been  professed  last  year,  and  therefore  could 
not  leave  the  convent,  and  this  knowledge  filled  him  with 

84 


THE   LAKE 

such  joy  that  he  could  not  keep  back  the  words,  but 
must  remind  Mary  that  she  had  had  ample  opportunity 
of  considering  if  she  were  suited  to  the  religious  life. 

"  You  see,  Mary,  you  should  have  thought  of  all  this 
before  you  were  professed." 

"  I  shan't  take  my  final  vows  till  next  year." 

"But,  my  dear  Mary,  once  a  woman  has  taken  the 
black  veil  ...  it  is  the  same  thing,  you  know." 

"  Not  quite,  otherwise  there  would  be  no  meaning  in 
the  delay." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  thinking  of 
leaving  the  convent,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  but  it  is  very  hard  on  me,  Oliver.  I 
was  thinking  of  writing  to  you,  but  I  hoped  that  you 
would  come  to  see  us.  You  have  been  a  long  time  now 
without  coming." 

"Well,  Mary " 

"  Eliza  loves  ruling  everybody,  and  just  because  I  am 
her  sister  she  is  harder  on  me  than  anyone  else.  Only 
the  other  day  she  was  furious  with  me  because  I  stopped 
at  confession  a  few  minutes  longer  than  usual.  '  I  think,' 
she  said,  '  you  might  spare  Father  Higgins  your  silly 
scruples.'  Now,  how  is  one  to  stop  in  a  convent  if  one's 
own  sister  interferes  in  one's  confessions  ?  " 

"Well,  Mary,  what  are  you  thinking  of  doing?" 

"  There  are  some  French  nuns  who  have  just  come 
over  and  want  to  open  a  school,  and  are  looking  for 
Irish  subjects.  I  was  thinking  they'd  like  to  have  me. 
You  see,  I  wouldn't  have  to  go  through  the  novitiate 
again,  for  they  want  an  experienced  person  to  teach  them 

85 


THE   LAKE 

English  and  to  mind  the  school  for  them.    It  is  really 
a  mistake  to  be  under  one's  own  sister." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  Eliza  came  in, 
apologizing  for  having  kept  her  brother  so  long  waiting. 

"  You  see,  my  dear  Oliver,  I've  had  two  mothers  here 
this  morning,  and  you  know  what  parents  are.  I  sup- 
pose Mary  has  told  you  about  our  difficulties.  Now,  do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  found  a  person  who  will 
suit  us  ?  ...  It  is  really  very  kind  of  you." 

"  I  can't  say  for  certain,  Eliza.  Of  course,  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  know  exactly  what  you  want ;  but,  so  far 
as  I  know,  I  think  the  person  I  have  in  my  mind  will 
suit  you." 

"  But  has  she  a  diploma  from  the  academy  ?  We 
must  have  a  certificate." 

"  I  think  she'll  suit  you,  but  we'll  talk  about  her 
presently.  Don't  you  think  we  might  go  into  the 
garden  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  pleasanter  in  the  garden.  And  you, 
Mary — you've  had  your  little  chat  with  Oliver." 

"  I  was  just  going,  Eliza.  If  I'd  known  that  Oliver 
wanted  to  speak  privately  to  you,  I'd  have  gone  sooner." 

"  No,  no,  I  assure  you,  Mary." 

Mary  held  out  her  hand  to  her  brother,  saying: 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  not  see  you  again,  unless,  perhaps, 
you're  stopping  the  night  with  Father  Higgins.  It  would 
be  nice  if  you  could  do  that.  You  could  say  Mass  for 
us  in  the  morning." 

Father  Oliver  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  get  back  to-night." 
86 


THE   LAKE 

"  Well,  then,  good-by."  And  Mary  went  out  of  the 
room  regretfully,  like  one  who  knows  that  the  moment 
her  back  is  turned  all  her  faults  will  become  the  subject 
for  conversation. 

"  I  hear  from  Mary  that  some  French  nuns  are 
coming  over,  and  want  to  open  a  school.  I  hope  that 
won't  interfere  with  yours,  Eliza ;  you  spent  a  great  deal 
of  money  upon  the  new  wing." 

"  It  will  interfere  very  much  indeed ;  but  I'm  trying 
to  get  some  of  the  nuns  to  come  here,  and  I  hope  the 
bishop  will  not  permit  a  new  foundation.  It's  very  hard 
upon  us  Irish  women  if  we  are  to  be  eaten  out  of  house 
and  home  by  pious  foreigners.  I'm  in  correspondence 
with  the  bishop  about  it.  As  for  Mary " 

"  You  surely  don't  think  she's  going  to  leave  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  she'll  leave ;  it  would  be  easier 
for  me  if  she  did,  but  it  would  give  rise  to  any  amount 
of  talk.  And  where  would  she  go  if  she  did  leave,  un- 
less she  lived  with  you  ?  " 

"  My  house  is  too  small ;  besides,  she  didn't  speak  of 
leaving,  only  that  she  hadn't  yet  taken  her  final  vows. 
I  explained  that  no  one  will  distinguish  between  the 
black  veil  and  final  vows.  Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  I  think  those,  vows  will  take  a  great  weight  off  your 
mind,  Oliver.  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  myself." 

The  reverend  mother  opened  a  glass  door,  and 
brother  and  sister  stood  for  some  time  admiring  the 
flower  vases  that  lined  the  terrace. 

"  I  can't  get  her  to  water  the  geraniums." 

"If  you'll  tell  me  where  I  can  get  a  can " 

87 


THE   LAKE 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  reverend  mother." 

It  was  the  sister  in  charge  of  the  laundry,  and, 
seeing  her  crippled  arm,  Father  Oliver  remembered  how 
her  dress  had  become  entangled  in  the  machinery.  He 
didn't  know,  however,  that  the  fault  lay  with  Mary,  who 
had  been  told  off  to  watch  the  machinery  and  to  stop 
it  instantly  in  case  of  necessity. 

"  She  can't  keep  her  attention  fixed  on  anything, 
not  even  on  her  prayers,  and  what  she  calls  piety  I 
should  call  idleness.  It's  terrible  to  have  to  do  with 
stupid  women,  and  the  convent  is  so  full  of  them  that 
I  often  wonder  what  is  the  good  of  having  a  convent 
at  all." 

"  But,  Eliza,  you  don't  regret " 

"  No,  of  course  I  don't  regret.  I  should  do  just  the 
same  again.  But  don't  let  us  waste  our  time  talking 
about  vocations.  I  hear  enough  of  that  here.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  about  the  music  mistress;  that's  what  in- 
terests me." 

And  when  Father  Oliver  had  told  her  the  whole  story 
and  showed  her  Father  O'Grady's  letter,  she  said : 

"  You  know  I  always  thought  you  were  a  little  hard 
on  Miss  Leicester.  Father  O'Grady's  letter  convinces  me 
that  you  were." 

"  My  dear  Eliza,  I  don't  want  advice ;  I've  suffered 
enough." 

"  Oliver  dear,  forgive  me."  And  the  nun  put  out  her 
hand  to  detain  him. 

"  Well,  don't  say  again,  Eliza,  that  you  always 
thought.  It's  irritating,  and  it  does  no  good." 

88 


THE  LAKE 

"  Her  story  is  known,  but  she  could  live  in  the  con- 
vent; that  would  shelter  her  from  any  sort  of  criticism. 
.  .  .  I  don't  see  why  she  •  shouldn't  take  the  habit  of 
one  of  the  postulants,  but " 

The  priest  waited  for  his  sister  to  speak,  and  after 
waiting  a  little  while  he  asked  her  what  she  was  going 
to  say. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  said  the  nun,  waking  from 
her  reverie,  "  if  you  had  written  to  Miss  Leicester." 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  to  her." 

"  And  she's  willing  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  spoken  to  her  about  that.  It  didn't  occur 
to  me  until  afterward;  but  I  can  write  at  once  if  you 
consent." 

"  I  may  be  wrong,  Oliver,  but  I  don't  think  she'll 
care  to  leave  London  and  come  back  here,  where  she  is 
known." 

"  But,  Eliza,  a  girl  likes  to  live  in  her  own  country. 
Mind  you,  I  am  responsible.  I  drove  her  out  of  her 
country  among  strangers.  She's  living  among  Prot- 
estants." 

"  I  don't  think  that  will  trouble  her  very  much." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  say  that,  Eliza.  Do  you 
think  that  a  woman  cannot  repent?  that  because  she 
happens  to  have  sinned  once " 

"  No ;  I  suppose  there  are  repentant  sinners,  but  I 
think  we  generally  go  on  as  we  begin.  Now,  you  see, 
Father  O'Grady  says  that  she's  getting  on  very  well  in 
London.  She  seems  to  be  appreciated  there,  and  we  like 
to  live  among  those  who  appreciate  us." 

89 


THE  LAKE 

"  Well,  Eliza,  of  course,  if  you  start  with  the  theory 
that  no  one  can  repent " 

"  I  didn't  say  that,  Oliver.  But  she  wouldn't  tell  you 
who  the  man  was.  She  seems  a  person  of  character — I 
mean,  she  doesn't  seem  to  be  lacking  in  strength  of  char- 
acter." 

"  She's  certainly  a  most  excellent  musician.  You'll 
find  no  one  like  her,  and  you  may  be  able  to  get  her 
very  cheap.  And  if  your  school  doesn't  pay " 

A  shade  passed  across  the  reverend  mother's  face. 

"  There's  no  doubt  that  the  new  wing  has  cost  us  a 
great  deal  of  money." 

"  Then  there  are  the  French  nuns " 

"  My  dear  Oliver,  if  you  wish  me  to  engage  Miss 
Leicester  as  music  mistress  I'll  do  so.  There's  no  use 
speaking  to  me  about  the  French  nuns.  I'll  engage  her 
because  you  ask  me,  but  I  cannot  pay  as  much  as  women 
generally  ask  who  have  diplomas.  How  much  do  you 
think  she'd  come  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  she's  earning  in  London,  but 
I  suppose  you  can  pay  her  an  average  wage.  You  could 
pay  her  according  to  results." 

"  What  you  say  is  quite  true,  Oliver."  And  the  priest 
and  the  nun  continued  their  walk  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  unfinished  building.  "  But  you  don't  know, 
Oliver,  if  she's  willing  to  leave  London.  You'll  have  to 
write  and  find  out." 

"  Very  well,  Eliza,  I'll  write.  You'll  be  able  to  offer 
her  as  much  as  she  was  earning  in  my  parish  as  school- 
mistress. That's  fifty  pounds  a  year." 

90 


THE   LAKE 

"  It's  more  than  we  can  afford,  Oliver,  but  if  you 
wish  it " 

"  I  do  wish  it,  Eliza.  Thank  you.  You've  taken  a 
great  weight  off  my  mind." 

They  passed  into  the  house,  and,  stopping  in  front 
of  the  writing  table,  the  nun  looked  to  see  if  there  were 
paper  and  envelopes  in  the  blotter. 

"  You'll  find  everything  you  want,  even  sealing 
wax,"  she  said.  "  Now  I'll  leave  you." 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"TiNNicK  CONVENT, 
"June  4,  19 — . 

"DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER: 

"  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  received  the  letter  I 
sent  you  two  days  ago,  telling  you  how  much  I  appre- 
ciated your  kindness  in  asking  Father  O'Grady  to  write 
to  tell  me  that  you  were  quite  safe  and  getting  on  well. 
Since  writing  that  letter  I  feel  more  keenly  than  ever 
that  I  owe  you  reparation,  for  it  was  through  an  error  of 
judgment  on  my  part  that  you  are  now  an  exile  from 
your  own  country.  Everyone  is  agreed  that  I  have  com- 
mitted an  error  of  judgment.  My  sister,  the  superioress 
of  this  convent  from  where  I  am  writing,  is  of  that 
opinion.  The  moment  I  mentioned  your  name  she  began, 
'  I  always  thought  that — '  and  I  begged  of  her  to 
spare  me  advice  on  the  subject,  saying  that  I  knew  as 
well  as  she  could  tell  me  that  I  had  made  a  mistake.  .  .  . 
I  asked  her  if  she  would  help  me  to  make  atonement. 

"  The  new  wing  is  nearly  completed,  and  they  expect 
91 


THE   LAKE 


the  best  Catholic  families  in  Ireland  to  send  their 
daughters  to  be  educated  here.  I  had  heard  that  my 
sister's  difficulty  was  to  obtain  sufficient  musical  instruc- 
tion, and  I  at  once  thought  of  you.  I  thought  that  you 
might  like  to  live  in  your  own  country.  Now  that  your 
thoughts  have  again  turned  toward  God,  it  must  be 
painful  for  you  to  live  amid  strangers  in  a  Protestant 
country.  My  sister  is  of  the  same  opinion,  and  she  tells 
me  that  if  you  wish  to  come  over  here,  and  if  Father 
O'Grady  advises  it,  she  will  take  you  as  music  mistress. 
You  will  live  in  the  convent.  You  can  enter  it,  if  you 
wish,  as  a  postulant,  or  if  you  should  remain  an  extern 
teacher  the  salary  they  will  give  you  will  be  fifty  pounds 
a  year.  I  know  you  can  make  more  than  that  in  London, 
but  you  can  live  more  cheaply  here,  and  you  will  be 
among  friends  and  will  be  living  in  a  Catholic  country. 
"  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  on  this  subject. 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 

When  he  looked  up,  the  darkness  under  the  trees  sur- 
prised him,  and  the  geraniums  so  faintly  red  on  the 
terrace,  and  his  sister  passing  up  and  down  like  a 
phantom. 

"  Eliza." 

He  heard  her  beads  drop,  and  out  of  a  loose  sleeve 
a  slim  hand  took  the  letter.  There  was  not  enough  light 
in  the  room  to  read  by,  and  she  remained  outside,  leaning 
against  the  glass  door. 

"  You  haven't  written  exactly  the  letter  I  should  have 
92 


THE   LAKE 

written,  but,  then,  we're  quite  different.  I  should  have 
written  a  cold  and  more  businesslike  letter."  His  face 
changed  expression,  and  she  added :  "I'm  sorry  if  I'm 
unsympathetic,  Oliver." 

The  touch  of  her  hand  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  sur- 
prised him;  for  Eliza  was  not  demonstrative,  and  he 
wondered  what  had  called  forth  this  sudden  betrayal  of 
feeling.  He  expected  her  to  ask  him  not  to  send  the 
letter,  but  instead  of  doing  so  she  said : 

"  If  the  letter  were  written  otherwise  it  wouldn't  be 
like  yourself,  Oliver.  Send  it,  and  if  she  leaves  London 
and  comes  back  here  I  will  think  better  of  her.  It  will  be 
proof  that  she  has  repented.  I  see  you'll  not  have  an  easy 
mind  until  you  make  atonement.  .  .  .  You  exaggerate, 
I  think,  but  everyone  for  himself  in  a  matter  like  this." 

"  Thank  you,  Eliza.    You  always  understand." 

"  Not  always.  I  failed  to  understand  when  you 
wanted  to  set  up  a  hermitage  on  Castle  Island." 

"  Yes,  you  did ;  you  have  better  sense  than  I.  Yet 
I  feel  we  are  more  alike  than  the  others.  You  have 
counted  for  a  great  deal  in  my  life,  Eliza.  Do-  you 
remember  saying  that  you  intended  to  be  reverend 
mother?  And  now  you  are  reverend  mother." 

"  I  don't  think  I  said  '  I  intended.'  But  I  felt  that 
if  I  became  a  nun,  one  day  or  another  I  should  be 
reverend  mother;  one  generally  knows  what  is  going 
to  happen— one's  own  fate,  I  mean." 

"  I  wonder  if  Mary  knows  ?  " 

"  If  she  does,  I  wish  she'd  tell  us." 

"We'll  have  time  to  walk  round  the  garclen  once 
7  93 


THE  LAKE 

more.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  pleasure  it  is  for  me  to 
see  you — to  talk  with  you  like  this." 

And,  talking  of  Mary,  they  walked  slowly,  forgetful 
of  everything  but  each  other. 

A  bell  rang. 

"  I  must  be  going ;  it  will  be  late  before  I  get  home." 

"  Which  way  are  you  going  ?  Round  by  Kilronan  or 
across  the  Bridge  of  Keel?" 

"  I  came  by  Kilronan.  I  think  I'll  take  the  other  way. 
There  will  be  a  moon  to-night." 

Brother  and  sister  entered  the  convent. 

"You'll  enjoy  the  drive?" 

"  Yes."  And  he  fell  to  thinking  of  the  drive  home 
by  the  southern  road,  the  mountains  unfolding  their  many 
aspects  in  the  gray  moonlight,  and  melting  away  in  misty 
perspectives. 


94 


VII 


From  Miss  Leicester  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"4  WILSON  STREET,  DORSET  SQUARE,  LONDON. 
"  DEAR  FATHER  GOGARTY  : 

I  WENT  to  see  Father  O'Grady  yesterday,  and  he 
showed  me  your  letter.  As  I  sat  reading  it  I 
heard  him  say :  *  Evidently  a  highly  nervous, 
sensitive  man,  quite  unlike  the  ordinary  Irish  priest.'  I 
told  him  that  he  would  have  to  know  you  to  appreciate 
how  different  you  were  from  the  stout,  well-fed  priest 
one  sees  walking  up  and  down  the  railway  stations  in 
Ireland,  looking  round  to  see  if  anyone  is  admiring  him. 
We  talked  about  you,  and  about  the  wrong  you  had  done 
me,  a  long  time.  I  confess  I  am  rather  tired  of  hearing 
my  wrongs  discussed,  and  it  is  tedious  to  have  a  view 
which  is  not  entirely  mine  impressed  upon  me ;  but  dear 
Father  O'Grady  sees  things  so  entirely  from  his  own 
point  of  view,  arid  he  would  not  understand  if  I  were  to 
tell  him — I  wonder  if  you  will — that  the  wrong  that  was 
done  me  (the  horrid  word  comes  up  again)  was  more 
sentimental  than  material.  My  plans  for  leaving  Garra- 
nard  were  already  made,  and  your  allusion  to  me  in  your 
sermon  only  precipitated  matters,  causing  me  at  most 
some  temporary  inconvenience. 

95 


"  Your  imagination  of  the  difficulties  I  met  with  in 
London  does  not  seem  to  get  further  than  the  fact  that 
I  had  very  little  money,  and  that  I  left  Garranard  dis- 
graced. I  had  enough  money — not  a  great  deal,  but 
enough  to  carry  me  through ;  and  as  for  the  disgrace,  I 
am  afraid  the  good  or  evil  opinion  of  Garranard  doesn't 
trouble  me  much.  I  shall  never  see  Garranard  again ; 
not  one  of  those  who  heard  you  speak  against  me  shall 
I  ever  see;  they  will  have  no  opportunity  of  slighting 
me,  and  if  they  had,  their  slights  would  matter  very  little. 
The  fish  under  the  wave  doesn't  think  much  of  the  eagle 
in  the  sky,  and  in  Garranard  I  was  the  eagle  or  the  fish — 
whichever  you  like.  I  loved  its  kind,  sweet,  docile  animal 
life,  and  would  not  have  been  willingly  without  it,  but 
you  were  the  only  human  being  with  whom  I  could  com- 
municate, and  we  only  communicated  through  the  music. 
So  far  as  ideas  are  concerned,  you  and  I  stood  at  the 
opposite  ends  of  the  earth ;  but  ideas  are  here  to-day  and 
gone  to-morrow,  whereas  our  feelings  are  always  with 
us,  and  we  recognize  those  who  feel  like  us,  and  at  once, 
by  a  sort  of  instinct.  Don't  you  remember  the  day  I  met 
you  on  the  road,  and  how  we  jumped  off  our  bicycles 
and  stood  talking  to  each  other,  each  wondering  what 
the  other  was  going  to  say?  Didn't  you  say  something 
about  Mozart's  Mass,  and  didn't  I  know  at  once  I  had 
met  a  companion  spirit?  And  will  you  believe  me  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  had  decided  to  leave  Garranard  that 
morning,  and  it  was  our  talk  about  music  on  the  roadside 
that  decided  me  to  remain — at  all  events,  it  delayed  my 
departure.  Father  Peter  'died  a  few  days  afterward,  you 

96 


THE   LAKE 

were  appointed  to  the  parish,  and  I  couldn't  imagine  you 
living  in  Garranard  without  music,  without  companion- 
ship except  what  distraction  you  could  find  in  a  chat  with 
a  parishioner,  and  without  a  friend  except  Father  Moran, 
and  he  could  never  be  a  friend  of  yours  in  any  real  sense 
of  the  word.  All  the  time  I  was  in  Garranard  I  never 
forgot  I  could  go  when  I  liked,  whereas  yours  was  a 
life's  job.  I  stayed  on  for  your  sake,  and  might  have 
stayed  a  little  longer,  though  London  was  drawing  me 
all  the  while,  if  you  hadn't  denounced  me.  You  got  rid 
of  me ;  but  will  you  ever  get  a  schoolmistress  again  who 
can  play  the  harmonium  as  well  as  I,  who  can  teach 
the  choir  as  well  as  I,  who  can  decorate  the  altar 
as  well  as  I?  Already  my  place  has  been  taken, 
but  how  is  it  being  filled?  Write  and  tell  me.  I  shall 
be  curious  to  hearz  for  I  know  well  that  if  she  plays  false 
notes  or  doesn't  come  in  at  the  right  moment  you  will 
hate  her.  I  have  had  my  punishment,  but  yours  isn't 
over  yet — a  long  punishment  of  false  notes.  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  Father  Gogarty.  .  .  .  My  sorrow  will  seem  to 
you  somewhat  factitious :  I  don't  pretend  that  it  is  quite 
genuine.  I'm  sorry  for  you  in  a  way,  but  at  the  bottom 
of  my  heart  I  am  afraid  I  shall  always  think  that  you 
only  got  your  deserts.  I  stayed  in  Garranard  to  please 
you;  now,  is  it  my  fault  if  your  pleasure  has  become 
your  punishment? 

"  Perhaps  you  are  thinking  I  did  wrong  to  linger  in 
Garranard.  No  doubt  changes  of  purpose  are  unwise, 
but  that  change  of  intention  on  the  roadside  was  unpre- 
meditated. I  didn't  know  at  the  time  I  was  changing  my 

97 


THE   LAKE 


mind;  I  just  acted  on  the  impulse.  If  I  had  gone  then, 
I  should  have  been  saved  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  no 
doubt,  but  I  should  have  missed  my  share  of  life.  And 
what  I  have  been  through  was  a  great  mental  awakening ; 
I  have  learnt  a  great  deal  physically  and  mentally.  There 
was  plenty  of  time  for  thinking  in  the  two  months  before 
baby  was  born.  .  .  .  You,  too,  have  had  time  for  think- 
ing, and  your  thoughts  have  brought  you  to  the  point 
of  asking  my  forgiveness.  You  have  been  roused  out 
of  the  lethargy  of  conventional  conscience,  and  have  come 
to  look  upon  human  nature  with  more  kindly  eyes. 

"  Father  O'Grady  has  told  you  of  the  difficulties  I 
met  with,  and  I  suppose  I  did  meet  with  considerable 
difficulty  in  getting  work,  in  finding  rooms — landladies 
look  askance  at  young  women  who  don't  wear  wedding 
rings  and  are  going  to  have  babies.  Father  O'Grady  has 
told  you  all  about  Mrs.  Dent — I  needn't  go  over  the  story 
again.  She  was  very  kind;  but  there  are  always  Mrs. 
Dents,  and  I  should  have  pulled  through  somehow.  So 
long  as  one  does  not  despair,  so  long  as  one  doesn't  look 
upon  life  bitterly,  things  work  out  fairly  well  in  the  end. 
Where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way.  The  real  injury  you 
did  was  not,  as  I  have  said,  a  material,  but  a  sentimental 
one;  your  callous  silence  disheartened  me.  Not  one 
letter  to  inquire  whether  I  was  alive  or  dead!  I  didn't 
know  then  why  you  didn't  write,  though  more  than  once 
I  suspected  you  were  a  victim  of  habit  and  prejudice; 
your  personal  intelligence  and  sympathies  were  over- 
ruled, and  during  those  months  you  were  the  typical 
priest  who  looks  upon  women  as  the  deadly  peril  and  the 

98 


THE  LAKE 

difficulty  of  temporal  life.  After  awhile  your  intelligence 
began  to  assert  itself,  and  the  natural  man  to  suspect  the 
humanity  of  the  code  which  orders  that  the  infected  sheep 
shall  be  driven  out  of  the  fold  lest  the  rest  of  the  flock 
become  contaminated.  This  is  the  usual  jargon,  and  I 
have  heard  so  much  of  it  from  Father  O'Grady  that  it 
conies  to  my  tongue  quite  easily.  He  is  so  very  indignant 
against  the  method  whereby  a  high  moral  standard  is 
obtained  in  Ireland  that  it  often  seems  strange  to  me  he 
should  be  at  once  so  liberal-minded  and  so  narrow ;  for  I 
am  sure  he  thinks  my  dear  little  baby  has  caused  the 
Almighty  a  great  deal  of  pain.  He  cannot  look  upon  my 
baby  as  a  natural  accident;  he  looks  upon  her  as  a  sin 
because  I  am  not  married,  and  so  do  you — a  sin  the 
Almighty  would  punish  with  damnation  if  the  Church 
didn't  intervene  between  His  wrath  and  the  sinner.  I 
allow  myself  this  one  allusion  to  the  theological  side  of 
the  question.  It  might  have  been  better  to  have  omitted 
it;  but  since  I  have  written  it  I  will  let  it  stand,  for  it 
will  serve  to  show  you  that  we  can  never  regard  my  mis- 
fortune in  Garranard  in  quite  the  same  way.  I  don't 
think  that  in  our  last  talk  I  tried  to  hide  from  you  that  I 
couldn't  accept  your  view  of  my  offense.  We  didn't 
agree  then,  and  t  don't  suppose  we  shall  ever  agree  about 
some  things;  but  I  think  you  will  admit  now  that  I  did 
well  to  withhold  the  man's  name  from  you.  Since  I  last 
saw  you,  you  have  had  time  to  consider  the  matter,  and 
I  dare  say  you  often  say  to  yourself, '  Well,  she  was  right.' 
I  was  right.  The  man  has  since  died,  and  who  he  was 
is  now  a  matter  of  very  small  moment, 

99 


THE   LAKE 

"  Already  this  past  seems  to  me  more  like  a  dream 
than  anything  else — so  faint,  oh,  so  faint!  When  I  try 
to  remember,  it  seems  to  elude  me  just  as  a  dream  might. 
I  am  the  same  Rose  Leicester  as  you  knew,  only  more 
so — more  convinced  than  ever  that  the  moment  only  is 
real  and  important.  Whither  I  am  going  I  know  not; 
I  only  know  this,  that  I  am  moving  toward  my  destiny. 
The  sensation  is  delightful.  It  comes  now  and  then 
caressing  my  cheek  like  a  breeze;  and  I  often  feel  it 
about  me  as  I  sit  at  my  window  in  Wilson  Street  when 
I  come  home  in  the  evening  after  a  hard  day's  work. 

"  I  am  still  earning  only  two  pounds  a  week ;  but 
that  makes  no  difference,  for  I  feel  that  every  day  I  am 
approaching  my  natural  destiny.  London  is  my  natural 
home.  Will  you  believe  me  if  I  tell  you  that  I  always 
knew  I  should  come  to  London,  even  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  on  the  farm,  sitting  under  a  tree  with  no  one  to  keep 
me  company  but  an  old  sheep  dog?  I  knew  then  that  I 
should  come  to  London  and  meet  learned  and  dis- 
tinguished men,  and  here  I  am;  the  learned  and  dis- 
tinguished men  will  come  later.  Meanwhile,  everyone 
is  helping  me,  consciously  and  unconsciously.  It  seems 
as  if  a  vast  conspiracy  were  at  work,  the  purpose  of 
which  is  to  lift  me  out  of  my  present  circumstances ;  and 
so  sure  am  I  of  this  that  when  I  come  home  in  the  even- 
ing I  always  ask  my  landlady  if  anyone  has  called.  I 
expect  to  be  told  that  a  duke  has  called,  and  has  left  some 
flowers  for  me — the  landlady  should  know  he  was  a  duke 
by  the  armorial  bearings  on  his  carriage — and  when  she 
answers,  '  No,  miss ;  no  one  has  called/  so  convinced  am 

JOO 


THE   LAKE 

I  that  the  delay  is  accidental  that  I  go  up  to  my  lonely 
room  quite  satisfied.  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  he  is 
a  duke  or  a  prince,  but  I  incline  toward  the  dukedom. 

"  It  will  seem  to  you  that  I  am  a  little  mad,  that  I  do 
not  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  but  I  know  very  well. 
I  have  been  long  wanting  to  write  these  things  to  some 
one,  and  your  letters  afforded  me  an  opportunity  of  put- 
ting the  thoughts  that  fill  my  mind  upon  paper.  More- 
over, I  would  have  you  understand  that  it  is  not  my  fault, 
but  the  fault  of  my  destiny,  dear  Father  Gogarty,  if  I 
cannot  accept  your  sister's  offer.  Your  project  does  not 
fall  in  with  the  general  scheme  of  my  life — that's  how  it 
is.  But  you  must  not  think  me  ungrateful.  I  know  the 
offer  would  not  have  been  made  except  for  you.  It  was 
kind  of  you  to  think  of  asking  your  sister  to  propose  to 
engage  me  as  teacher  in  the  convent,  and  I  think  I  can 
see  you  putting  the  old  gray  horse  into  the  car ;  I  think 
I  can  see  the  poor  old  fellow  trotting  round  the  lake, 
saying  to  himself,  *  I  wish  there  were  no  such  things  as 
sinful  schoolmistresses  in  the  world.'  But  though  my 
destiny  is  certainly  not  in  Garranard,  I  should  be  sorry 
to  think  that  we  shall  never  meet  again.  We  shall  meet 
somewhere,  for  sure — in  London,  perhaps.  You  will 
come  to  London  some  day,  and  you  will  go  to  see  Father 
O'Grady,  and  then  I  will  sing  a  beautiful  Ave  Maria  for 
you  that  you  have  not  heard. 

"  Meanwhile  I  hope  this  letter  will  not  disappoint  you 
too  much — above  all,  I  hope  it  will  not  turn  you  against 
me.  You  see,  dear  Father  Gogarty,  I  must  write  as  I 
feel.  If  I  didn't  do  that,  there  would  be  no  good  in  my 

101 


THE   LAKE 

writing,  my  letter  wouldn't  be  myself,  and  it  was  myself 
that  you  liked,  and  this  letter  is  like  me.  You  will  not  be 
angry — I  will  not  have  it — and  you  will  write  very  soon, 
and  tell  me  you  are  not  angry,  and  that  you  prefer  I 
should  write  to  you  exactly  as  I  feel. 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  ROSE  LEICESTER." 

The  post  had  brought  another  letter.  He  had  already 
noticed  the  handwriting;  it  was  Father  O'Grady's,  and 
he  felt  that  if  it  had  come  from  anybody  else  he  would 
not  have  read  it. 

From  Father  O'Grady  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"JuneS,  19—. 

"  MY  DEAR  FATHER  GOGARTY  : 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  you  that  Miss  Leicester 
had  told  her  story  truthfully.  If  she  had  exaggerated 
or  indulged  in  the  faintest  equivocation,  it  would  have 
been  a  great  disappointment  to  me  and  to  her  friends, 
and  it  would  have  put  me  in  a  very  difficult  position,  for 
I  should  have  had  to  tell  certain  friends  of  mine,  to  whom 
I  had  recommended  her,  that  she  was  not  at  all  what  we 
had  imagined  her  to  be.  She  is,  I  believe,  writing  to  you 
by  this  post,  and  will  tell  you  that  I  have  appointed  her 
organist  in  my  church.  It  remains,  therefore,  only  for 
me  to  thank  you  for  your  manly  letter  acknowledging 
the  mistake  you  have  made. 

"  I  can  imagine  the  anxiety  it  must  have  caused  you, 
and  the  great  relief  it  must  have  been  to  you  to  get  my 

102 


THE   LAKE 

letter.  Although  Miss  Leicester  spoke  with  bitterness, 
she  did  not  try  to  persuade  me  that  you  were  naturally 
hard-hearted  or  cruel.  The  impression  that  her  story 
left  on  ray  mind  was  that  your  allusions  to  her  in  your 
sermon  were  unpremeditated.  Your  letter  is  proof  that 
I  was  not  mistaken,  and  I  am  sure  the  lesson  you  have 
received  will  bear  fruit.  I  trust  that  you  will  use  your 
influence  to  restrain  other  priests  from  similar  violence. 
It  is  only  by  gentleness  and  kindness  that  we  can  do  good. 
Miss  Leicester  tells  me  that  she  said  in  her  letter  to  you 
that  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  if  you  ever  come  to 
London.  I  repeat  this  invitation  here. 
"  I  am,  sir, 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  FATHER  O'GRADY,  P.P." 

"  Not  much  in  that,"  he  said;  and  Father  O'Grady's 
letter  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  taking  up  Rose's,  he 
wondered  if  he  should  answer  it,  and  how  he  should 
answer  it.  There  was  an  inclination  humming  within 
him  that  he  would  do  well  to  burn  her  letter.  But  to 
burn  it  he  would  have  to  get  a  match,  and  it  would  take 
some  time  in  burning. 

As  he  sauntered  around  the  garden,  stopping  every 
now  and  then  to  pick  the  dead  blooms  away,  he  grew 
angry  against  Rose,  and  he  began  to  think  of  what  he 
could  write  to  annoy  her,  to  humiliate  her,  and  all  kinds 
of  rancor  passed  through  his  mind,  taking  the  shape  of 
an  entire  letter,  phrase  for  phrase,  comma  for  comma. 
So  clear  was  the  letter  in  his  mind  that  he  had  to  go  into 

103 


THE   LAKE 

the  house  to  write  it.  But  for  some  reason,  dark  to  him- 
self, he  drifted  away  from  his  writing  table,  and,  taking 
up  a  book,  he  sank  into  his  armchair.  But  he  couldn't 
read.  His  eyes  soon  strayed  from  the  page,  and  he  sat 
looking  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  thinking  the  whole 
thing  was  at  an  end.  .  .  .  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
shouldn't  dismiss  it  from  his  mind.  On  her  own  admis- 
sion he  had  done  her  no  material  wrong,  only  a  moral 
wrong.  She  had  allowed  Father  O'Grady  to  think  she 
had  been  hardly  used.  She  had  flattered  him,  appealed 
to  his  prejudices,  played  the  hypocrite. 

A  little  while  afterwards  he  was  surprised  to  find 
himself  arguing  against  this  view.  Father  O'Grady  was 
clearly  a  man  of  one  idea,  and  that  a  very  common  idea, 
too — that  the  Irish  priest  who  remains  at  home  is  a  poor, 
uncultured  creature.  Of  what  use  would  it  be  for  her 
to  oppose  his  idea?  She  wouldn't  be  likely  to  change 
Father  O'Grady 's  opinions,  and  she  was  dependent  upon 
his  recommendation  and  assistance.  And  he  began  to 
regret  the  letter  he  had  written  to  Father  O'Grady.  No 
good  had  come  of  it,  nor  of  his  scruples  of  conscience. 

Overcome  by  a  sudden  pain,  he  threw  the  book  he  was 
reading  on  the  table,  and  walked  out  of  the  house  quickly. 
Half  an  hour  after  he  stood  at  the  end  of  the  sandy  spit 
like  a  prisoner  beside  his  prison  bars,  staring  across 
the  lake,  thinking  that  in  a  few  days  the  unfortunate 
affair  would  have  passed  from  his  mind.  She  had  said 
that  her  past  seemed  to  her  as  faint  as  a  dream,  and  the 
part  she  had  played  in  his  life  would  grow  fainter  and 
fainter,  for  he  would  never  see  her  again. 

104 


THE  LAKE 

Without  being  aware  of  any  transition  of  feeling,  his 
mood  changed,  gently,  imperceptibly,  as  the  light  changed 
on  the  lake,  and  he  found  himself  at  last  musing  over  the 
past,  remembering  that  she  had  said  in  her  letter  that 
she  had  remained  in  the  parish  only  on  account  of  her 
liking  for  him,  because  she  knew  that  he  couldn't  leave 
it.  ...  But  was  this  true?  She  gave  what  she  had  for 
giving,  as  we  all  do.  She  couldn't  give  all  her  life,  and 
he  had  been  angry  with  her  because  she  didn't  choose 
to  leave  London  to  come  back  to  teach  in  a  convent. 
Would  he  have  come  back  in  her  place?  With  a  sigh 
he  answered  his  question,  and,  turning  from  the  lake,  he 
wended  his  way  homeward,  a  dark  spot  moving  slowly 
along  the  gray  shore.  His  mood  had  changed  again, 
and  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  prudence  whispering  in 
his  ear,  telling  him  that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  answer 
her  letter,  "  but  to  let  the  matter  drop."  But  then  all 
kinds  of  specious  arguments  began  in  his  mind — if  he 
did  not  answer  her  letter  she  would  write  again,  and  per- 
haps a  third  time.  In  front  of  such  persistency  it  would 
be  impossible  for  him  to  maintain  silence.  Moreover,  she 
was  friendless  in  London.  Father  O'Grady  was  no  more 
than  an  acquaintance.  He  had  done  her  a  wrong — a 
material  wrong  or-  a  moral  wrong,  perhaps  both.  Was 
he  justified,  etc.?  A  fortnight  after  she  received  this 
letter. 


105 


THE  LAKE 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,   BOHOLA, 

"June  27,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER  : 

"  I  had  so  entirely  set  my  heart  on  bringing  you  back 
here,  and  making  atonement  for  the  wrong  I  did  you, 
that  it  would  be  unnatural  if  your  letter  were  not  a  great 
disappointment  to  me,  and  I  do  not  know  that  my  disap- 
pointment is  relieved  to  any  very  large  extent  by  the 
news  you  send  me  of  your  happiness  and  your  hopes. 
The  truth  is  your  letter  alarmed  me  a  good  deal,  and  that 
is  why  I  did  not  answer  it  at  once.  I  felt  I  must  have 
time  to  think  over  it  and  to  consider  how  I  should  answer 
it,  for  an  ill-considered  word  is  often  the  cause,  as  I  know 
to  my  cost,  of  a  disaster.  It  is  now  more  than  a  fortnight 
since  I  got  your  letter,  and  I  have  read  what  you  wrote 
to  me  several  times,  and  in  order  to  guard  against  a  false 
impression  I  put  your  letter  aside  for  some  days,  and 
then  took  it  up  again.  Every  time  I  turn  to  it  I  feel  more 
and  more  that  for  you  to  live  alone  in  London,  making 
your  bread  casually,  ^as  it  were  from  door  to  door,  is 
fraught  with  danger.  God  will  watch  over  you,  it  is  true, 
and  Father  O'Grady  is  always  at  hand  to  advise  you ;  but 
I  feel  more  strongly  day  by  day  that  you  will  do  well  to 
consider  my  sister's  offer  again  and  again.  I  speak  to 
you  as  a  priest,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  secure  a  more 
permanent  happiness  by  returning  to  your  own  country, 
and  living  among  those  who  share  the  same  religious 
views  as  yourself,  than  you  can  possibly  attain  in  London. 

106 


THE   LAKE 

"  After  finishing  the  last  sentence,  I  laid  down  the 
pen  and  took  up  your  letter  and  glanced  through  it  again, 
and  this  time  the  passage  that  alarmed  me  is  the  one  in 
which  you  describe  yourself  waiting  for  brilliant  fortune, 
which,  in  the  shape  of  a  prince  or  a  duke,  will  some  day 
come  knocking  at  your  door,  and  carry  you  away  in  a 
painted  carriage  like  a  lady  in  a  fairy  tale.  Of  course,  I 
do  not  take  your  words  literally.  I  understand  you  to 
mean  that  your  character  is  such  a  one  as  leads  inevitably 
to  fame  and  fortune  by  a  series  of  steps  which  appear 
accidental,  but  which  are  derived  from  the  personal  char- 
acter you  brought  into  the  world.  If  my  deeply  regret- 
ted mistake  does  not  debar  me  from  uttering  a  word  of 
warning — and  the  tone  of  your  letter  would  lead  me  to 
think  that  I  still  retain  some  small  portion  of  your  confi- 
dence— I  would  beg  of  you  not  to  lend  too  ready  an  ear 
to  the  specious  promises  that  a  youthful  and  strenuous 
imagination  is  whispering  in  your  ear.  We  cannot  be  too 
much  on  our  guard  against  the  temptations  that  Life 
spreads  for  our  feet,  as  a  fowler  spreads  his  net.  You 
believe  Fortune's  door  to  be  thrown  open,  and  you  not 
very  far  away,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  waiting  for  her  to 
sign  to  you  to  come  forward.  Sweet  perfumes  and  fine 
linen  tempt  you  from  within,  and  you  must  have  said, 
'  Dear  me,  those  poor  people  in  Garranard,  simple- 
minded  folk,  think  I  should  give  up  all  this  and  go  back 
to  teach  music  in  a  convent ! '  A  shudder  passed  through 
you,  and  I  can  easily  imagine  how  your  heart  must  have 
filled  with  joy  when  your  eyes  went  to  your  window.  I 
suppose  Wilson  Street  is  not  a  very  grand  street — on  two 

107 


THE  LAKE 

pounds  a  week  one  does  not  live  in  a  very  fashionable 
quarter — but  however  meager  the  prospect  Wilson  Street 
affords,  its  appearance  reminds  you  immediately  that  you 
are  in  London,  that  you  are  free,  that  the  West  of  Ireland 
is  forever  behind  you.  I  have  little  hope  that  any  words 
of  mine  will  dissuade  you  from  the  illusion  of  success  and 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  and  hearing  all  the  sights  and 
sounds  that  go  to  make  life  beautiful  and  enticing. 
What  can  I  say  ?  What  could  those  more  eloquent  than 
I  say?  What  could  the  psalmist  say?  He  could  but  ask 
you  of  what  value  are  life's  pleasures  with  death  at  the 
end  of  them  all?  But  death  seems  to  you  very  far  away 
now,  and  you  would  give  very  little  heed  even  to  the 
psalmist  were  he  to  appear  in  person.  Life  is  as  mys- 
terious as  death,  and  the  more  we  think  of  it  the  more 
wonderful  does  it  seem  to  us.  You  have  just  come  out 
of  a  great  danger  which  your  temperament  led  you  into, 
yet  you  tell  me  that  it  is  precisely  on  your  temperament 
that  you  rely  to  lead  you  aright. 

"  I  let  my  pen  run  on  though  I  place  no  hope  on  it 
to  persuade  you.  Were  I  by  you  I  might  influence  you 
somewhat.  But  no;  when  I  was  by  you  I  failed.  I  was 
the  victim  of  an  illusion  like  yourself.  What  my  illusion 
was  I  know  not,  but  I  was  certainly  deluded,  and  led 
by  my  temperament  into  error.  Far  better  that  Father 
O'Grady  should  be  your  guardian.  If  anyone  can  in- 
fluence you  it  will  be  he,  and  I  beg  of  you  to  put  your 
trust  in  him  now.  I  am  tempted  to  ask  if  you  have 
spoken  to  him  as  openly  as  you  have  to  me  in  your  last 
letter?  Have  you  told  him  that  the  wrong  I  did  you  was 

108 


THE  LAKE 

rather  a  moral  than  a  material  wrong  ?  Not  that  I  would 
have  you  exonerate  me  or  say  a  word  that  would  extenu- 
ate my  conduct  in  his  eyes.  He  would  probably  under- 
stand very  little  and  care  very  little  about  moral  wrongs. 
He  is,  I  can  see,  a  man  with  a  fixed  idea,  one  of  those 
Irish  priests  living  in  England  who  think  themselves 
superior  to  the  Irish  priest  who  knows  no  culture  except 
such  as  Maynooth  can  give  him.  You  tell  me  that  he 
regards  me  as  an  exception,  and  this  seems  strange,  for, 
judged  by  my  conduct,  who  has  shown  himself  to  be  more 
ignorant,  more  narrow-minded  than  I,  more  Irish,  if  you 
will?  This  much,  however,  may  be  said  for  me,  that  very 
soon  I  saw  I  had  been  guilty  of  an  error  of  judgment. 
Except  that  temporary  blindness,  occasioned  by  a  burst 
of  passion,  I  fail  to  see  that  I  have  lacked  perception.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  afraid  I  am  only  too  susceptible  to 
every  shade  of  feeling,  and  err  from  overscrupulousness. 
Will  you  understand  me  when  I  tell  you  I  cannot  rid 
myself  of  the  idea  that  I  do  not  altogether  welcome  the 
opinion  you  expressed  that  I  did  you  no  material  wrong? 
Here  abstract  wrongs  do  not  appeal  to  us ;  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  miss  the  tragedy  of  my  remorse  just  as  the 
convalescent  may  in  a  sense  regret  the  excitement  and 
the  danger  that"  he  has  passed  through.  I  can  imagine 
a  convalescent  looking  forward  with  fear  to  the  struggle 
of  life  soon  to  begin  again;  for  sure  the  poor  man  in  the 
hospital  thinks  like  this,  and  I  am  a  very  poor  man  from 
henceforth.  I  can  see  only  gray  years,  without  adven- 
ture, without  ambition,  without  hope  in  front  of  me.  I 
dare  say  that  some  new  illusion  will  arise,  but  for  the 
8  109 


THE  LAKE 

moment  life  seems  exactly  like  a  desert,  and  I  cannot  but 
think  the  crossing  of  this  desert  will  prove  infinitely 
wearisome.  Our  lives  are  strangely  opposed.  You  are 
full  of  strength,  and  hope,  and  joy;  I  am  depressed  and 
weak.  Yet  I  ask  you  to  come  back  here.  There  is 
something  incongruous  in  my  request,  but  the  incongruity 
is  more  apparent  than  real,  for  I  know  I  am  advising  you 
for  the  best.  We  all  suffer  from  depression  occasion- 
ally, and  we  are  all  too  liable  to  forget  that  every  mood 
is  a  passing  mood.  My  mood  will  pass,  I  know,  but  for 
the  moment  it  is  myself.  There  are  reasons,  and  excel- 
lent ones,  why  I  should  be  depressed.  The  choir  was  a 
great  interest,  and  the  choir  has  been  taken  from  me. 
The  same  girls  raise  their  voices;  they  generally  sing  the 
right  notes ;  but  the  singing  is,  nevertheless,  quite  dif- 
ferent. A  piece  of  music  that  under  your  leadership  took 
four  minutes,  under  Eva  Maguire's  takes  six.  Every- 
thing drags — the  choir  and  the  school.  The  lessons  are 
long  and  tedious,  the  schoolmistress  tires  me;  I  have 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  my  temper,  and,  fearing  I  may 
lose  it,  I  do  not  go  to  the  school  every  morning.  Nor 
can  I  say  that  I  think  more  of  her  harmonium  playing 
than  I  do  of  her  method  of  teaching  children.  Nor  does 
her  arrangement  of  flowers  on  the  altar  please  me. 

"  A  holiday  would  do  me  good,  but  I  do  not  think  the 
present  time  is  the  one  for  me  to  choose  to  go  away. 
But  your  suggestion  that  when  I  go  to  London  I  shall 
call  on  Father  O'Grady  is  an  excellent  one.  I  am  deeply 
grateful  to  him  for  his  kindness  to  you,  and  for  this  and 
many  other  reasons  forgive  him  the  superior  tone  he 

no 


THE  LAKE 

adopts  toward  Irish  priests  who  live  in  their  own  coun- 
try, and  doubtless  fall  into  errors  of  judgment.  When  I 
go  to  London  I  shall  talk  to  him  about  you;  if  you  are 
still  his  organist,  if  your  temperament  has  not  whirled 
you  away  down  a  path  of  dazzling  success,  we  shall  meet, 
and  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  sing.  But 
I  am  doubtful  about  many  things,  and  no  doubt  this  let- 
ter is  full  of  contradictions.  It  will,  I  fear,  produce  very 
little  effect ;  but  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  if  I  were 
to  delay  writing  I  should  write  a  more  effectual  letter. 
We  shall  meet  some  day,  perhaps  when  we  are  both  quite 
different,  when  the  past  has  become  as  faint  as  a  dream. 
It  has  already  become  as  faint  for  you ;  I  am  afraid  I  must 
wait  a  little  longer. 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 

From  Miss  Rose  Leicester  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"5  CUMBERLAND  PLACE,  LONDON, 
"June  27,  19 — . 

"  You  have  delayed  a  long  while  to  answer  my  letter; 
I  am  sure  it  is  nearly  three  weeks  since  I  wrote  to  you. 
Perhaps  the  reason  you  have  not  written  is  because  I 
would  not  leave  London  and  return  to  Ireland  to  teach 
music  in  Tinnick  Convent.  Or  did  my  letter  displease 
you  so  much  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to 
write  to  me  again?  I  must  know.  You  must  confide  in 
me;  I  will  not  allow  you  to  be  cross  with  me.  There  has 
been  crossness  enough  and  to  spare  between  us.  As  soon 

in 


THE  LAKE 

as  you  have  read  this  letter  sit  down  and  answer  it,  and  at 
a  grsat  length,  for,  although  I  have  gone  away  and  do 
not  mean  to  come  back,  I  am  still  interested  in  Garra- 
nard.  You  must  tell  me  all  its  sayings  and  doings.  You 
may  not  think  them  interesting,  but  they  will  amuse  me. 
If  my  letter  displeased  you,  I  am  sorry;  I  thought  I  had 
said  very  many  pleasant  things  in  it.  Did  I  not  tell  you 
that  when  you  came  to  London  you  were  to  go  to  see 
Father  O'Grady,  and  that  you  and  he  were  to  talk  about 
me?  Did  I  not  say  that  I  would  sing  a  beautiful  Ave 
Maria  for  you,  one  you  have  not  heard,  and  one  which  I 
think,  if  I  know  your  taste  in  music,  you  will  like  ex- 
ceedingly? 

"  The  more  I  think  the  more  pretty  things  do  I  seem 
to  have  said  in  my  unanswered  letter,  written  more  than 
a  fortnight  ago.  I  think  I  told  you,  and  if  I  didn't  I 
should  have  told  you,  that  you  must  not  let  your  con- 
science trouble  you  any  more  about  the  wrong  you  have 
done  me.  Didn't  I  say  that?  But  perhaps  I  am  wrong- 
ing you,  perhaps  you  have  been  ill,  perhaps  you  are  ill. 
If  so,  get  Catherine  to  write  for  you.  No,  you  cannot 
be  ill ;  I  cannot  imagine  jou  ill.  I  have  never  heard  of 
your  being  ill.  I  am  writing  to  you  because  I  cannot 
help  myself.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  my  prophecy  has 
come  true.  You  remember  that  I  wrote  something  in 
my  letter  to  the  effect  that  I  put  my  faith  in  my  own  per- 
sonality to  carry  me  straight  on  toward  success.  I  told 
you  I  had  always  foreseen  that  my  future  would  be  in 
London,  and  that  I  used  to  sit  talking  about  London  to 
the  old  sheep  dog  under  the  fir  tree;  and  to  cheer  you  up 

112 


THE   LAKE 

I  told  you  that  the  time  I  spent  in  Wilson  Street  before 
my  baby  was  born,  that  terrible  time,  was  not  so  terrible 
as  I  expected  it  would  be. 

"  My  letter  was  really  a  very  nice  one.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  that  I  was  happy?  though  when  I  wrote  to  you  about 
my  happiness  I  didn't  feel  quite  sure  that  this  last  piece 
of  news  would  please  you,  for  human  nature  is  very  per- 
verse, and  we  only  care  to  hear  of  another's  happiness 
when  we  are  the  givers  of  it.  I  am  afraid  I  should  feel 
like  that  myself;  but  you  mustn't  feel  like  that,  you  must 
like  to  hear  that  I  am  making  friends  wherever  I  go,  and 
you  must  become  reconciled  to  the  idea  that,  though  I 
was  a  dissonance  in  Ireland,  I  am  part  of  the  English 
harmony.  And  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  find  one's  self  in 
harmony  with  one's  surroundings,  everything  going  to 
the  beat,  one's  ideas  chiming  with  the  ideas  about  one, 
one's  work  interesting  one  so  much  that  one  goes  to  it 
smiling  along  the  street,  anxious  to  be  at  it,  wonder- 
ing what  the  result  of  the  day's  work  will  be,  if  this 
pupil  will  be  able  to  play  a  little  exercise  better  than 
she  played  it  yesterday,  if  another  one  will  be  able  to  sing 
a  note  more  clearly. 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  these  things  do  not  matter  much, 
they  matter  a  great  deal;  for  when  these  things  go  right 
we  are  happy;  when  they  don't,  we  are  depressed. 

"  I  chatter  freely  about  myself,  for  there  are  times 
when  one  feels  that  one  must  unbosom  one's  self,  and  I 
am  afraid  I  am  not  a  very  reticent  person.  I  know  I  lack 
reticence;  but  then,  if  I  remember  right,  you  liked  my 
impulsiveness — you  used  to  say  that  I  was  nearer  to  the 

"3 


THE   LAKE 

primitive  woman  than  anyone  you  had  ever  met.  So  is 
it  my  fault  if  I  write  to  you  about  myself?  What  would 
Father  O'Grady  understand  if  I  were  to  tell  him  that  I 
tripped  home  every  evening  to  Wilson  Street,  smiling  as 
I  went  along,  checking  myself  occasionally,  lest  a  passer- 
by should  think  me  mad;  my  head  filled  with  stories, 
stories  singing  in  my  head  together,  and  all  going  to  the 
self-same  tune,  and  myself  the  heroine  of  every  story? 
What  should  the  dear  man  understand  if  I  told  him,  as  I 
told  you,  that  I  walked  home  possessed  by  an  inveterate 
belief  that  a  prince  or  a  duke  had  called  to  see  me?  He 
would  have  asked  me  for  my  reasons  for  thinking  that  a 
prince  or  a  duke  had  rapped  at  the  door  of  No.  4  Wil- 
son Street,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon;  he  would  want 
to  know  how  the  prince  or  the  duke  had  heard  of  my 
existence,  and  of  course  I  should  not  have  been  able  to 
answer  these  questions. 

"  We  have  a  foreknowledge  of  the  future  in  its  gen- 
eral lines,  but  we  may  not  know  the  workings  out  of  the 
various  transformation  scenes.  And  when  I  said  a  prince 
or  a  duke  would,  like  the  harlequin  in  the  pantomime, 
order  the  change  of  scene,  I  only  knew  a  great  change 
was  coming.  So  I  was  not  discouraged  when  the  land- 
lady told  me  there  was  no  letter,  or  handed  me  one  from 
a  mamma  asking  me  if  I  could  give  her  daughter  her  les- 
son in  the  afternoon  instead  of  in  the  morning.  I  just 
went  upstairs,  as  I  told  you,  and  sat  by  my  window  watch- 
ing the  sky  fading,  thinking  all  the  while  what  a  splendid 
thing  it  was  to  be  in  London,  and  how  much  more  beau- 
tiful was  the  view  even  from  Wilson  Street — the  view 

114 


THE   LAKE 


from  my  window  is  of  some  dirty  railings  with  children 
playing  about  them — than  the  sunlit  hollows  and  the  re- 
fined melancholy  of  Garranard.  Never  for  a  moment  did 
I  doubt  my  good  fortune,  and,  to  pass  the  time  before  I 
went  to  bed,  I  used  to  invent  little  stories  how  the  duke 
who  was  coming  to  see  me  was  not  satisfied  with  the 
buckles  on  his  shoes,  and  had  turned  back  to  get  new 
ones.  Once  he  ordered  his  valet  to  the  scaffold,  and  will 
you  believe  it  was  I  who  pleaded  and  saved  the  poor 
servant's  life?  The  next  day  I  was  inclined  to  believe 
that  the  duke's  carriage  had  broken  down,  and,  having 
dislocated  his  shoulder  against  a  lamp  post,  the  duke  was 
obliged  to  postpone  his  visit  to  No.  4  Wilson  Street 
until  he  got  well  again;  and  will  you  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that  it  was  I  who  nursed  him?  I  sat  by  his  sick 
bed.  It  was  a  four-post  bed  with  a  carved  top.  Charles 
the  Second,  who  was  the  duke's  irregular  ancestor,  had 
slept  in  that  bed,  and  lo!  I  sat  there  handing  him  mix- 
tures prepared  by  a  learned  doctor  who  had  come  all  the 
way  from  Trinidad.  Why  from  Trinidad  I  cannot  for  the 
life  of  me  tell  you. 

"  My  vagrant  imagination  must  not  be  cross-ques- 
tioned. It  foresaw  my  future  correctly  enough,  though 
it  was  neither  a  prince  nor  a  duke  who  sought  me  out  in 
Wilson  Street,  but  a  great  writer — not  a  poet,  but  a 
writer  on  learned  subjects.  When  I  say  he  is  not  a  poet 
I  do  not  mean  he  is  a  writer  who  is  insensible  to  poetry 
— a  dry-as-dust  Greek  or  Hebrew  scholar.  Mr.  Ralph 
Ellis  began  his  literary  career  by  writing  verse ;  but,  feel- 
ing it  were  useless  to  write  verse  unless  one  were  a  great 


THE   LAKE 

poet — and  to  be  a  great  poet  one  must  have  a  special 
voice,  and  a  poet's  voice  is  as  rare  as  De  Reszke's — 
feeling  that  he  had  not  this  voice,  Mr.  Ellis  abandoned 
poetry  for  scholarship. 

"  His  views  on  poetry  are  original,  and  I  wonder  what 
you,  who  have  read  the  poets,  would  think  of  them. 
According  to  Mr.  Ellis,  the  poet  is  one  who  can  tiddle- 
diddle-diddle  like  a  canary  in  a  cage;  many  men  philoso- 
phize and  psychologize  and  botanize  in  verse;  but  writ- 
ing in  meter  does  not  constitute  a  poet,  nor  does  the 
invention  of  beautiful  images  and  harmonious  sentences. 
The  poets,  according  to  the  tiddle-diddle-diddle  doctrine, 
are  Shakespeare,  Shelley,  Swinburne,  and  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  Mr.  Ellis  admits  that  he  had  some  hesitation  re- 
garding Keats,  but,  after  rereading  the  lines  on  a  '  Gre- 
cian Urn,'  and  the  '  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,'  he  decided 
he  must  reject  him.  He  read  aloud  yesterday  Keats's 
'  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,'  and  Shelley's  '  Ode  to  the  Sky- 
lark,' and  I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Shelley  does  the 
tiddle-diddle-diddle  better  than  Keats. 

"  The  same  doctrine  may  be  applied  to  music.  Bee- 
thoven, he  points  out,  does  the  tiddle-diddle-diddle  much 
better  than  Bach.  Mozart  does  it  better  than — no,  not 
better  than  Beethoven;  but  he  does  it  better  than  Gluck. 
The  question  Mr.  Ellis  and  I  are  debating  now  is,  could 
Wagner  tiddle-diddle-diddle?  I  suppose  he  could,  for, 
otherwise,  how  should  we  explain  the  '  Song  of  the 
Bird'  in  'Siegfried'?  Mr.  Ellis  plays  very  well,  and 
we  have  been  through  the  opera.  But,  before  I  tell 
you  any  more  about  Mr.  Ralph  Ellis's  accomplishments, 

116 


THE  LAKE 

I  must  tell  you  who  he  is,  and  how  I  made  his  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  Mr.  Ralph  Ellis  is  the  father  of  Miss  Edith  Ellis, 
a  charming  girl  of  fourteen,  one  of  my  pupils,  a  pretty 
blonde  girl  with  bright  eyes,  and  with  many  reflections 
of  her  father  in  her  face.  I  dare  not  say  she  is  like  her 
father,  for  is  a  woman  ever  like  a  man?  She  has  bright 
sunny  hair  and  intense  eyes,  and — but  you  are  not  in- 
terested in  Edith,  and  why  should  you  be?  What  has 
Miss  Edith  Ellis  got  to  do  with  you?  If  I  am  to  tell  you 
about  any  of  the  family,  it  must  be  about  Mr.  Ellis  him- 
self. He  lives  with  his  daughter  in  a  house  in  Cumber- 
land Place,  but  his  home  is  in  Berkshire,  which,  so  far  as 
I  can  judge  from  photographs  and  descriptions,  must  be 
a  delightfully  romantic  spot,  very  like  the  pictures  one 
sees  in  galleries.  And  I  am  Mr.  Ellis's  secretary!  He 
came  into  the  room  the  other  day  when  I  was  giving 
Edith  her  lesson  to  ask  me  if  I  knew  anyone  who  could 
copy  a  manuscript.  I  knew  no  one,  but,  acting  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  I  said  that,  if  the  manuscript  were 
not  very  difficult,  I  would  be  very  glad  to  try  to  copy  it 
for  him, '  if  it  is  neither  Greek  nor  Hebrew,'  I  said,  lower- 
ing my  eyes.  '  It  is  neither,'  he  answered.  '  It  is  in  my 
own  handwriting."  It  is  a  chapter  of  my  new  book.  Do 
you  think  you  can  copy  it? '  I  raised  my  eyes  very 
gently,  and  said:  '  I  should  like  to  try.'  I  did  try,  and  I 
succeeded  so  well  that  Mr.  Ellis  has  asked  me  to  go  to 
Berkshire  to  act  as  his  secretary  and  teach  his  daughter 
music. 

"  Edith  and  I  are  great  friends.     I  have  been  teach- 


THE  LAKE 

ing  her  since  I  came  to  London,  and  she  is  delighted  with 
the  arrangement,  and  has  begged  of  me  to  accept  her 
father's  proposal.  Her  mother  died  years  ago,  and  she 
has  never  had  a  companion,  so  her  desire  for  me  to  go  to 
Ethelstone  Manor  is  comprehensible  enough.  She  has 
lived  alone  with  her  father,  and  is  too  young  to  be  much 
interested  in  libraries.  She  is  interested  in  her  singing 
and  in  her  pony.  She  and  I  go  for  drives  together,  and 
she  talks  incessantly  of  the  places  she  will  show  me. 

"  But  again  I  am  drifting  back  to  telling  you  about 
Edith,  whereas  I  should  be  telling  you  about  Mr.  Ellis. 
He  resembles  extraordinarily  the  idea  I  had  formed  of 
him  before  seeing  him,  only  he  is  younger  looking. 
Edith,  as  I  told  you,  is  fourteen,  so  he  must  have  mar- 
ried when  he  was  very  young,  for  I  don't  think  he  can  be 
more  than  thirty-five.  He  could  hardly  be  less,  for  it  is 
seldom  that  a  man  marries  before  he  is  three-and-twenty. 
I  am  sure  he  cannot  be  more  than  thirty-seven.  At  first 
sight  he  does  not  look  more  than  thirty.  He  is  tall  and 
clean-shaven,  with  a  high  nose,  which  goes  well  with  his 
eyeglass.  The  chin  is  long  and  remarkable;  his  hair  is 
mustard  color  and  glossy,  and  it  curls  very  prettily  about 
the  broad,  well-shaped  forehead. 

"  His  manner  is  distant  at  first.  He  is  reserved,  and 
this  lends  a  charm  to  the  permission  which  he  very  soon 
grants  you  of  making  acquaintance  with  those  thoughts 
and  ideas  which  have  interested  him  since  boyhood,  and 
which  have  given  him  his  character.  If  he  seems  at  first 
sight  to  conceal  himself  from  you,  it  is  either  from  shy- 
ness or  because  he  sees  no  reason  why  he  should  allow 

118 


THE   LAKE 

you  the  privilege  of  walking  about  in  his  mind  as  in  a 
public  place.  I  am  sure  he  regards  his  mind  as  certain 
people  regard  their  parks  and  pleasure  grounds — as 
places  for  themselves  and  their  friends'  recreation.  He 
is  exceedingly  himself,  and  strangely  unforeseen.  All 
the  forms  of  his  thought  are  individual.  One  doesn't 
know  the  mold  he  has  come  out  of.  He  lives  so  much 
in  himself  that  he  is  called  egotistic  by  many.  But  so 
would  Hamlet,  the  character  in  fiction  which  I  think  he 
resembles  most.  He  doesn't,  however,  dress  in  black. 
I  cannot  expect  you  to  be  interested  in  another  man's 
clothes,  but  surely  a  predominant  note  of  color  is  not 
without  significance,  and  that  is  why  I  tell  you  that  he 
dresses  nearly  always  in  gray. 

"  I  said  in  the  beginning  of  this  letter  that  he  was  once 
a  poet.  The  expression  is  a  false  one;  I  should  have  said 
that  he  has  ceased  to  write  verse;  but  though  he  no  longer 
writes  in  meter,  he  has  not  ceased  to  make  use  of  his 
poetic  gifts.  He  uses  them  now  and  to  excellent  ad- 
vantage; for  they  enable  him  to  make  a  learned  subject 
intelligible  and  fascinating.  His  subject  is — you  would 
never  guess  it,  not  if  you  were  to  guess  for  a  thousand 
years — his  subject  is  the  Bible!  I  can  see  you  throw  up 
your  arms.  And  "what  a  fine  gesture  it  is!  Don't  I  know 
it  well?  And  can't  I  hear  you  cry  out,  '  Good  heavens! 
my  schoolmistress  writing  about  the  ancient  Hebrews 
and  their  God — our  God!  Jehovah.'  My  dear  Father 
Gogarty,  that  is  not  the  way  you  should  spell  the 
Almighty's  name;  we  spell  it  here  Eahveh,  Strange 
things  happen,  and  will  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 

119 


THE   LAKE 

that  I  take  a  great  interest  in  my  work,  and  hope  to 
begin  the  study  of  Hebrew  very  soon?  Yourself  en- 
couraged me  to  learn  Latin,  so  why  should  it  be  incon- 
gruous for  me  to  learn  Hebrew  and  congruous  to  learn 
Latin?  If  the  language  of  Rome  is  Latin,  the  language 
of  Jerusalem  was  Hebrew,  or,  to  be  exact,  Syro-Chaldean. 
And  the  importance  of  Jerusalem  cannot  be  considered 
less  than  that  of  Rome,  for,  whereas  only  popes  live  in 
Rome,  Himself  preached  and  died  in  Jerusalem. 

"  Mr.  Ellis  has  been  twice  to  Jerusalem,  and  the  notes 
he  took  as  he  rode  across  the  desert  are  full  of  color 
and  animation.  He  watched  and  noted  all  that  the  eye 
can  see,  of  the  color  of  the  skies  and  the  color  and  the 
shapes  of  the  earth,  from  the  back  of  the  young  drome- 
dary which  bore  him  from  morn  till  eve  along  the  shores 
of  the  Sea  of  Akabah.  These  shores  are  covered  with 
shells  wonderfully  voluted,  and  he  has  brought  many 
home.  At  the  end  of  the  third  day,  when  they  left  the 
sea  behind  them,  a  troop  of  gazelles  sprang  up  out  of 
some  low  bushes  and  fled  before  them.  Wasn't  it  won- 
derful? Every  night  he  wrote  in  his  tent,  transcribing 
the  impressions  of  the  day,  and  he  wrote  on  until  the 
pencil  fell  from  his  hand  and  sleep  was  no  longer  to  be 
resisted.  The  manuscript  prepared  under  these  condi- 
tions has  to  be  revised  afterwards,  but,  I  assure  you,  that 
some  of  his  descriptions  of  the  desert  which  will  appear 
in  his  book  are  transcribed  almost  word  for  word  from 
his  notebook,  and  these  descriptions  will  enable  the  reader 
to  realize  the  wanderings  of  the  early  Hebrews  about 
Mount  Sinai  before  they  settled  in  Palestine.  He  lived 

I2O 


THE  LAKE 

six  months  in  Galilee,  and  his  description  of  the  landscape 
will  transport  the  reader,  and  he  will  follow  Christ  at  a 
distance,  seeing  Him  among  His  disciples.  The  poet  will 
therefore  act  as  a  sort  of  agent  in  advance  to  the  man 
of  learning.  You  may,  as  Mr.  Ellis  often  says,  know 
every  secret  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  your  knowledge 
will  avail  you  nothing  if  you  are  not  a  poet,  if  you  can- 
not give  a  literary  form  to  your  knowledge. 

"  Mr.  Ellis  is  a  poet,  and  his  poetry  will  gain  him 
a  thousand  readers  where  all  the  learning  of  the  scholars 
would  not  gain  him  ten.  I  am  amazed  at  the  interest  with 
which  I  listen  to  him;  he  enlivens  the  driest  subjects 
with  wit.  He  puts  his  old  eyeglass  into  his  left  eye, 
and  I  can  see  that  he  is  amused  at  the  tediousness  of 
his  studies.  '  How/  he  says,  '  shall  I  poetize  these  minor 
prophets  ?  '  And  I  confess  it  is  difficult  to  do  so.  Have 
you  ever  read  them,  Father  Gogarty?  They  are  very 
tedious. 

"  Mr.  Ellis  was  speaking  yesterday  of  Hosea  and 
Amos,  and,  passing  from  them,  he  told  me  how  a  light 
had  suddenly  been  thrown  on  certain  obscure  passages 
in  the  Book  of  Daniel,  how  a  certain  German —  I  cannot 
tell  you  the  story,  it  has  suddenly  slipped  out  of  my 
mind,  but,  I  assufe  you,  it  was  as  exciting  as  any  riddle. 
As  for  Jeremiah,  I  already  seem  to  know  him ;  I  can  see 
him  when  he  was  pulled  out  of  the  well  more  dead  than 
alive,  cursing  profusely,  pouring  out  imprecations  with 
the  volubility  of  an  Irish  tinker  come  from  a  fair,  his 
head  fairly  broken.  I  have  only  been  a  week  with  Mr. 
Ellis,  and  I  foresee  that  Jeremiah  will  become  a  very 

121 


THE   LAKE 

intimate  acquaintance  of  mine ;  all  last  evening  was  spent 
reading  his  Jeremiads,  and  if  I  know  him  so  well  in 
London,  what  will  it  be  when  we  go  down  to  Berkshire. 

"  To-day  Mr.  Ellis  is  reading  in  the  British  Museum. 
There  are  few  books  here,  but  his  library  in  Berkshire 
is,  I  hear,  one  of  the  finest  private  libraries  in  England, 
and  every  window  looks  out  on  the  park.  Think  of  me 
sitting  there  learning  Hebrew,  raising  my  eyes  now  and 
again  to  admire  the  curves  of  the  beautiful  trees  showing 
against  the  sky,  and  the  great  branches  of  the  copper 
beeches  sweeping  the  green  turf.  There  are  a  number 
of  deer  in  the  park,  and  they  come  down  to  drink  at 
the  pond.  That  is  all  I  know  of  Ethelstone  Manor,  but 
I  will  write  to  you  and  tell  you  my  impressions  of  the 
library  and  the  park.  We  are  going  there  in  a  few  days, 
and  to  tell  you  this  is  one  of  my  reasons  in  writing  to  you, 
for  I  should  be  disappointed  if  you  were  to  come  to 
London,  and  I  was  not  here  to  sing  the  Ave  Maria  for 
you.  We  are,  I  believe,  going  abroad  at  the  end  of  July. 
Miss  Ellis  wants  to  go  to  Germany  to  hear  some  music. 
But  nothing  is  settled  yet. 

"  I  told  you  in  my  -.first  letter  that  something  was 
going  to  happen  to  me — well,  that  something  has  hap- 
pened, and,  so  far  as  I  can  judge  from  a  week's  experi- 
ence, I  am  perfectly  satisfied. 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  ROSE  LEICESTER." 


122 


THE   LAKE 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"June  29,  19 — . 

"  Our  letters  crossed.  Both  letters  were  posted  on 
Thursday  evening,  so  while  I  am  reading  your  letter 
about  Mr.  Ralph  Ellis  and  his  writings  you  are  reading 
my  explanation  why  I  did  not  answer  your  letter  at  once. 
I  think  I  omitted  to  say  that  your  letter  alarmed  me  so 
much  that  I  thought  more  than  once  of  sending  it  on  to 
Father  O'Grady,  and  if  I  did  not  do  so  it  was  because 
my  first  blunder  has  rendered  me  cautious.  I  remembered 
that  I  had  no  right  to  show  your  letter  to  anyone.  A 
letter  is  a  bewildering  thing ;  even  the  most  ordinary  let- 
ters often  fill  one  with  doubt.  If  Father  Moran  were  to 
write  to  me  saying  he  would  call  at  three  o'clock  to- 
morrow, and  if  he  didn't  arrive  punctually,  if  he  were  half 
an  hour  late,  I  should  be  walking  up  the  room,  going  to 
the  front  door ;  and  having  considered  every  possible  ac- 
cident, sick  calls,  broken  bicycles,  I  should  turn  to  his 
letter  and  wonder  what  day  he  meant  when  he  wrote  '  to- 
morrow/ asking  myself  if  the  letter  were  written  before 
12  P.M.  or  A.M.  Now,  if  a  simple  note  making  an 
appointment  can  give  rise  to  so  much  conjecturing,  it  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  restlessness  such  a  letter  as  yours 
would  stir  up  in  one  as  intimately  concerned  in  your 
welfare  as  I  am. 

"  Knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  was  disposed  to  look  upon 
the  whimsical  fancies  expressed  in  your  first  letter  as  the 
natural  bent  of  your  mind,  without  particular  significance, 

123 


THE  LAKE 

and  many  things  predisposed  me  to  take  this  view.  I 
could  not  forget  that  I  wished  you  to  leave  London. 
'  Maybe,'  I  said,  '  this  wish  predisposes  me  to  believe 
that  she  is  not  safe  in  London.  I  am  a  prejudiced  per- 
son.' Then  I  remembered  suddenly,  after  posting  the 
letter,  that  you  were  working  under  the  guidance  of 
Father  O'Grady,  and  I  was  seized  with  qualms  of  con- 
science, and  returned  home  asking  if  I  did  well  in 
writing  to  you  as  strongly  as  I  did.  It  seemed  to  me 
my  letter  might  be  regarded  as  impugning  the  validity 
of  Father  O'Grady's  sanction  and  guidance. 

"  '  Now  what  position  does  my  letter  put  me  in  ? '  I 
said  to  myself.  '  I  drove  a  woman  out  of  my  parish  to  live 
or  die  as  best  she  could.  She  meets  a  good  Samaritan, 
who  extends  a  friendly  hand,  and  puts  her  in  the  way 
of  earning  her  bread,  but  on  the  first  opportunity  I  inter- 
vene again,  and  use  every  effort  in  my  power  to  get  her 
away  from  him.  Not  only  do  I  do  this,  I  even  ventured 
to  criticise  him,  advancing  as  an  argument  that  he  had 
deserted  his  country.' 

"  I  walked  home  overcome,  alarmed  at  my  own  in- 
capacity, feeling  myself-entirely  unable  to  cope  with  life, 
and  I  do  not  think  anything  could  have  dissipated  this 
mood  except  your  last  letter.  I  see  now  that  I  was 
suffering  from  what  is  known  as  a  false  conscience :  my 
scruples  were  fictitious.  Of  course,  I  did  quite  right  in 
asking  you  to  return  to  Ireland.  I  am  quite  sure  now 
that  Father  O'Grady  would  not  have  disapproved  of  the 
letter  I  wrote  to  you :  he  certainly  would  not  if  I  were  to 
send  him  the  letter  which  you  have  written  to  me.  He 

124 


THE  LAKE 

would  say :  '  Your  suspicions  that  London  is  a  great 
danger  for  a  young  woman  like  her  are  fully  justified  by 
her  letter.  Only  by  a  miracle  can  she  live  there  without 
falling — I  will  not  say  into  -sin,  but  into  the  dangerous 
occasions  of  sin.'  There  is,  I  admit,  no  single  passage 
in  your  letter  which  by  itself  would  seem  a  sufficient 
cause  for  my  anxiety.  It  may  be  quite  true  that  Eahveh 
is  a  more  correct  spelling  than  the  usual  spelling;  I'm 
not  in  a  position  to  argue  the  point,  but  I  certainly  think 
that  you  might  have  expressed  yourself  more  reverently ; 
nor  can  I  approve  of  the  way  in  which  you  speak  of 
Jerusalem  and  Rome,  though  there  is  no  doubt  that  what 
you  say  is  true.  I  find  fault  not  so  much  with  what  you 
say  as  with  the  levity  with  which  you  express  yourself. 
Another  point.  You  say  you  are  sure  I  will  agree  with 
you  that  '  it  would  be  madness  to  miss  this  opportunity.' 
The  opportunity  of  what,  may  I  ask  ?  Of  acquiring  some 
pseudo-knowledge  regarding  the  early  Hebrews?  You 
do  not  say  whether  Mr.  Ellis  is  a  Catholic  or  a  Protestant. 
From  the  very  nature  of  his  studies  I  find  it  difficult  to 
believe  that  he  is  a  Catholic.  Biblical  exegesis  does  not 
as  a  rule  attract  Catholics.  It  is  a  study  confined  to 
Protestants  and  to  agnostics,  and  the  result  is,  I  am 
afraid,  rather  to.  create  unbelievers  than  converts. 

"  Father  O'Grady  said  in  his  first  letter  to  me  that  a 
priest  who  drives  a  woman  out  of  the  parish  must  not 
think  that  the  responsibility  ends  at  the  boundary  of  his 
parish.  In  many  respects  the  circumstances  of  your  case 
are  quite  different  from  the  girls  who  leave  Ireland  be- 
cause they  have  outraged  the  moral  law,  but  I  agree  with 
9  125 


THE  LAKE 

Father  O'Grady  that  my  responsibility  is  a  serious  one; 
it  is  even  more  serious  than  I  thought,  for  I  am  still 
pledged  to  your  spiritual  safety.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have 
some  assurance  from  you  that  Mr.  Ellis  doesn't  try  to 
influence  you  in  your  faith." 

He  stopped  writing,  for  he  had  begun  to  feel  that  his 
letter  was  absurd,  and  when  his  thoughts  turned  toward 
Rose  he  could  only  think  of  her  as  an  unscrupulous  little 
wanton,  determined  to  get  as  much  pleasure  as  she  could 
out  of  life.  But  he  didn't  want  to  regard  her  as  a  wan- 
ton; and  his  face  clouded,  and  he  frowned  when  he  re- 
membered the  enthusiasm  with  which  she  had  spoken  of 
Mr.  Ellis's  learning.  It  would  be  better  not  to  send  this 
letter;  it  would  be  better  not  to  write  to  her  any  more. 
And  he  experienced  an  indefinite  fear  that  this  cor- 
respondence might  lead  him  into  difficulties.  But  into 
what  difficulties?  Not  being  able  to  define  his  fears,  he 
dismissed  them  as  unworthy. 

"  Nothing  will  be  gained  by  writing,"  he  muttered 
to  himself.  Though  he  felt  quite  sure  on  this  point,  he 
knew  he  would  send  his  letter.  Then  he  grew  a  little 
alarmed;  for  his  will  seemed  to  have  suddenly  receded 
from  him.  The  sensation  was  a  strange  one. 

As  he  sat  thinking  the  door  was  suddenly  flung 
open. 

"  Father  Moran,  your  reverence." 

"  I  can  see  by  your  face,  Moran,  that  you  have  come 
to  talk  to  me  about  the  roofing  of  the  abbey.  You've 
arranged  something  with  the  bishop;  or  is  it  that  you 

126 


THE   LAKE 


find  that  the  blue  slates  on  which  you  have  set  your 
heart  are  more  expensive  than  you  thought  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Gogarty,  if  I'm  disturbing  you.  I'll  go 
away." 

"  You  aren't  disturbing  me.  I've  just  finished  a  letter 
which  must  be  posted  to-night." 

"  You'll  hardly  be  able  to  catch  the  post ;  "  and  Father 
Moran  looked  at  his  watch.  "  You'll  have  to  walk  fast." 

"  Now,  what  will  you  do  ?  Will  you  wait  here  until 
I  come  back,  or  will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  walking  to  Bohola  with  you.  I'm  not 
tired;  the  walk  will  do  me  good." 

"  And  you'll  tell  me  about  the  abbey  and  our 
diocesan  on  the  way.  But  if  I  take  you  all  the  way  to 
Bohola,  you'll  not  be  able  to  come  back  here  to  supper." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall." 

"  And  walk  home  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Five  miles  more  or  less  won't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  me.  I'll  leave  my  papers  on  your  table.  This 
is  a  copy  of  Illustrated  England.  I  thought  you  might 
like  to  look  at  it." 

"Illustrated  England  is  it?"  And  Father  Oliver 
took  up  the  paper,  and  was  about  to  turn  over  the  leaves, 
when  Father  Moran  reminded  him  that,  if  they  were  to 
catch  the  post  at  Bohola,  they  would  have  to  start  at 
once.  "  Very  well ;  but  I  must  tell  Catherine  that  you'll 
stay  to  supper.  She  wouldn't  forgive  me  if  I  didn't." 
And  Father  Gogarty  ran  into  the  kitchen  to  ask  his  serv- 
ant if  she  would  get  something  nice  for  Father  Moran's 
supper.  "  We  shall  be  back  in  a  couple  of  hours." 

127 


THE  LAKE 

Catherine  said  she  would  do  what  she  could ;  Father 
Gogarty  hastened  to  join  Father  Moran,  who  was  wait- 
ing, for  him  outside,  and  the  copy  of  Illustrated  England 
lay  on  the  table  until  Catherine  came  to  put  the  cloth  on 
for  the  priests'  supper.  She  threw  the  paper  into  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room;  it  got  hidden  away  under  a  mass  of 
other  newspapers ;  and  it  was  an  accident  that  brought  it 
to  light  some  few  days  afterwards,  and  Catherine  could 
not  understand  what  there  could  be  in  the  paper  that  had 
so  suddenly  and  completely  absorbed  his  reverence's  at- 
tention. 

The  newspaper  contained  an  account  of  Mr.  Ellis's 
book,  "  The  Source  of  the  Christian  River."  The  jour- 
nalist who  contributed  the  article  to  Illustrated  England 
looked  upon  Mr.  Ellis  as  a  great  man,  and  the  interview 
he  had  been  sent  down  to  do  as  the  beginning  of  his  lit- 
erary career.  So,  with  the  evident  intention  of  writing 
attractively,  he  began  with  some  allusion  to  his  own 
pious  childhood  and  his  religious  bringing-up.  That  such 
a  person  as  himself,  the  son  of  a  Wesleyan  minister, 
should  be  chosen  to  interview  Mr.  Ellis  seemed  to  him  a 
sign  of  the  times. 


128 


VIII 
From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 

"July  7,  19—. 

I  WROTE  to  you  a  few  days  ago  what  may  have 
seemed  a  cross  letter,  but  I  did  not  intend  to  be 
cross:  I  wrote  in  a  hurry,  and  I  had  no  time  to 
consider  my  words.  I  wrote  under  the  stress  of  the  emo- 
tion produced  by  the  long  letter  in  which  you  told  me 
you  had  resigned  your  post  of  organist,  and  were  going 
down  to  Berkshire  to  act  as  secretary  to  Mr.  Ralph  Ellis 
and  as  music  mistress  to  his  daughter.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  if,  after  writing  a  letter,  one  were  to  put  it  by 
and  read  it  over  in  the  morning.  Letters  should  not  be 
sent  until  one  were  sure  that  they  do  not  misrepresent 
one's  thoughts  and  feelings.  But  I  was  interrupted  in  the 
middle  of  my  letter  by  a  visit  from  Father  Moran ;  I  had 
just  laid  down  the  pen,  and  was  considering  what  I  had 
written,  when  he  came  in.  Had  he  not  come  in,  I  should 
not  have  finished  it  till  the  next  day.  He  reminded  me 
that  it  was  just  post  time,  and  suggested  we  should  go 
out  together,  and  I  hastily  scribbled  a  few  lines,  bringing 
my  letter  as  well  as  I  could  to  a  conclusion.  You  know 
how  difficult  it  is  to  write  with  some  one  walking  about 
the  room  talking  to  you  from  time  to  time.  I  am  hardly 
responsible  for  what  I  said  in  that  letter,  though,  so  far 

129 


THE   LAKE 


as  I  can  remember,  it  was  no  more  than  a  somewhat  ill- 
considered  epistle. 

"  But  this  explanation  of  the  possible  harshness  of 
my  letter  is  not  my  only  object  in  writing  to  you  now. 
I  am  writing  to  tell  you  that  I  know  far  more  about  Mr. 
Ralph  Ellis  than  I  did  when  I  last  wrote.  Strange,  is  it 
not,  that  Father  Moran  should  have  been  sent  a  copy  of 
Illustrated  England,  and  that  he  should  have  brought  it 
with  him  ?  Catherine  threw  it  away  among  some  papers, 
and  it  lay  there  for  two  or  three  days.  I  accidentally  dis- 
covered it,  and  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  read  with 
interest  the  descriptive  article  about  Ethelstone  Manor 
and  Mr.  Ralph  Ellis's  new  book,  '  The  Source  of  the 
Christian  River/  It  appears  from  the  article  in 
Illustrated  England  that  some  of  his  friends  are  priests. 
How  this  can  be,  I  know  not.  Why  should  so  antichristian 
a  writer  as  Mr.  Ellis  have  priests  for  friends  ?  I  do  not 
understand  such  liberal-mindedness ;  but  since  priests 
come  to  his  house,  place  yourself,  my  dear  child,  under 
their  friendly  guidance.  Ask  them  if  they  approve  of 
your  remaining  Mr.  Ellis's  secretary.  I  do  not  think 
they  will. 

"  I  thanked  God  when  I  got  Father  O'Grady's  letter 
telling  me  that  you  had  escaped  from  the  dangers  that 
beset  a  young  woman  in  London;  but,  alas!  you  have 
fallen  into  still  greater  dangers,  and  I  cannot  forget  that 
I  was  the  indirect  cause  of  your  having  met  Mr.  Ellis. 
Day  after  day,  week  in  and  week  out,  you  will  hear  every 
argument  that  may  be  heard  against  our  holy  religion.  I 
do  not  say  that  Mr.  Ellis  will  try  to  influence  you  directly, 

130 


THE   LAKE 

but  all  he  gives  you  to  read,  and  all  he  says,  will  be  anti- 
christian  doctrine.  You  have  the  advantage  of  being  born 
a  Catholic;  you  were  well  instructed  in  your  religion, 
and  no  doubt  you  will  accept  the  statements  you  hear 
with  caution.  Knowing  that  you  are  a  Catholic,  Mr. 
Ellis  will,  perhaps,  spare  you  as  much  as  possible;  very 
likely  he  will  not  try  to  undermine  your  faith ;  but,  after 
all,  his  words  will  be  always  under  your  eyes,  and  I  do 
not  think  it  right  for  a  Catholic  to  undertake  work  the 
very  object  of  which  is  intended  to  destroy  belief  in  the 
revealed  religion. 

"  I  think  I  said  in  my  letter  that  it  was  I  who  had 
driven  you  out  of  a  Catholic  into  a  Protestant  atmosphere, 
but  I  did  not  suspect  then  that  I  had  driven  you  into 
the  house  of  one  who  evidently  hates  Christianity,  and 
very  possibly  hates  it  in  its  Catholic  form  more  than  in 
any  other.  ...  If  you  lose  your  faith  I  am  responsible 
for  it,  and  I  am  not  exaggerating  when  I  say  that  in 
my  walks,  and  in  my  bed  at  night,  the  thought  is  con- 
stantly before  me  that  through  my  fault  I  may  have  lost 
a  soul  to  God.  I  can  imagine  no  greater  responsibility, 
and  there  seems  to  be  no  way  of  escaping  from  it.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  suspected  this  danger  from  the  very 
first.  My  dear -child,  the  reading  that  interests  you  so 
much,  and  the  learning  you  set  your  heart  upon,  what  will 
it  benefit  you  if  you  lose  your  own  soul  ?  It  is  your  most 
sacred  possession.  Will  you  come  back  here  to  teach 
in  the  convent?  I  do  not  ask  you,  I  dare  not  take  up 
that  hope  again,  but  I  beseech  you  to  return  to  Father 
O'Grady.  You  made  two  pounds  a  week  by  your  teach- 


THE   LAKE 


ing  in  London,  and  Father  O'Grady  certainly  must  have 
given  you  a  pound  a  week  for  playing  his  organ  and 
teaching  in  his  church.  Leave  Mr.  Ellis;  go  back  to 
work  under  the  guidance  of  that  good  man. 

"  I  beg  of  you  to  write  to  me  on  this  subject,  and  at 
once.  Remember  my  anxiety.  Tell  me  what  kind  of 
work  Mr.  Ellis  asks  from  you;  above  all,  tell  me  if  he 
tries  to  influence  you.  Do  not  accept  the  assertions  he 
makes  without  question.  The  science  of  yesterday  is  not 
the  science  of  to-day,  nor  will  the  science  of  to-day  be  the 
science  of  to-morrow;  only  the  Church  remains  im- 
mutable. Remember  that  the  Church  has  always  an 
answer  for  these  so-called  scientists.  I  am  not  qualified 
to  answer  or  to  take  up  the  defense  of  the  Church — I 
quite  recognize  and  know  my  own  deficiency  in  this  mat- 
ter ;  but  even  I  may  be  able  to  explain  away  some  doubts 
that  may  arise.  If  so,  I  beg  of  you  that  you  will  not 
hesitate  to  write  to  me.  If  I  cannot  do  it  myself,  I  may 
be  able  to  put  you  in  the  way  of  finding  out  the  best 
Catholic  opinion  on  matters  of  doctrine. 

%  ,  "  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 


From  Miss  Rose  Leicester  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"  ETHELSTONE  MANOR,  YARKSDALE, 

"July  26,  19 — . 
"  MY  DEAR  FATHER  GOGARTY  : 

"  It  is  now  my  turn  to  write,  excusing  myself  for  not 
having  answered  your  letters  before.     It  is  so  kind  of 

132 


THE   LAKE 


you  to  write  to  me,  and  I  fear  that  you  must  think  me 
neglectful,  and  perhaps  you  think  I  do  not  understand 
the  interest  you  take  in  me.  If  you  think  this  you  are 
mistaken.  Your  letter  in  answer  to  my  long  letter  about 
Mr.  Ralph  Ellis  may  have  been  a  little  stern.  How  could 
it  be  otherwise  ?  For,  after  all,  you  are  a  priest,  and  after 
reading  it  I  reproved  myself  for  having  written  to  you 
so  incautiously  and  given  you  pain.  But  you  know  I 
cannot  restrain  myself,  I  let  my  tongue  run  on ;  I  should 
have  said  my  pen,  but  writing  and  talking  are  the  same 
to  me — I  write  just  as  I  talk.  In  fact,  I  think  that  my 
letters  prattle  better  than  my  tongue.  Your  second  letter 
was  full  of  kindness,  and  I  should  have  answered  it  at 
once  if  I  had  not  been  busily  engaged  helping  Mr.  Ellis. 
He  is  revising  his  book  before  going  to  press ;  it  all  has 
to  be  rewritten,  and  the  publisher  is  clamoring  for  it, 
saying  that  he  is  missing  a  golden  opportunity  of  publi- 
cation. The  book  has  been  irrevocably  promised  for  the 
fifteenth  of  next  month,  and  by  that  time  the  whole  of 
the  manuscript  must  be  in  the  printer's  hands,  so  says 
the  publisher;  and  Mr.  Ellis  agrees  with  him,  adding, 
however,  that  it  is  equally  necessary  that  the  writing  of 
the  book  should  be  perfect. 

"  So  we  work  at  it  all  the  morning  and  all  the  after- 
noon. Sometimes  Mr.  Ellis  dictates  to  me,  sometimes  he 
writes  himself,  sometimes  I  have  to  copy  his  manuscript, 
and  sometimes  I  have  to  read  books  for  him,  and  hunt 
up  references  while  he  is  writing.  After  four  o'clock  I 
belong  to  Miss  Ellis.  There  is  her  music,  and  after  her 
music  lesson  we  go  for  a  walk  or  a  drive;  and  with  all 

133 


THE   LAKE 

these  duties  to  attend  to,  and  all  these  thoughts  to  think, 
I  found  it  impossible  to  gather  sufficient  collectedness  of 
mind  to  write  you  a  letter.  You  know  you  said  that  let- 
ters were  treacherous  things  and  that  one  should  not 
write  one  without  carefully  considering  it;  that  it  were 
even  a  better  thing  not  to  post  a  letter  at  once,  but  to 
lay  it  by,  and  not  to  send  it  until  one  were  quite  sure  that 
it  did  not  misrepresent  one's  ideas  or  convey  any  false 
impressions.  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  write  like  this  at  all. 
I  take  up  the  pen,  and  it  runs  along,  and  I  hardly  know 
what  I  am  writing.  If  I  am  interrupted  in  the  middle  of 
a  letter  I  have  to  tear  it  up,  I  cannot  go  on  with  it ;  before 
writing  I  have  to  work  myself  up,  and  when  my  brain 
begins  to  catch  fire  I  take  up  my  pen,  and  I  can  go  on  as 
long  as  the  mood  lasts,  and  sometimes  it  lasts,  as  you 
know,  for  many  pages.  Tell  me,  do  you  like  my  letters  ? 
They  don't  bore  you,  do  they?  If  I  thought  they  did  I 
shouldn't  write  any  more.  When  you  write  again  you 
must  not  forget  to  answer  this  question. 

"  And  now  I  have  to  answer  some  questions  of  yours. 
You  are  anxious  for  my  spiritual  safety.  Well,  I  assure 
you  that  there  is  no  need  that  you  should  be.  We  are 
not  theologians  here,  we  are  historians;  and  Mr.  Ellis 
says  the  Bible  is  not  only  a  book  of  revelation  it  is  also 
a  history  and  it  has  a  history.  And  it  is  the  history  of 
the  Bible  that  interests  us.  This  is  Mr.  Ellis's  view  of 
this  work,  and  a  priest  who  comes  here  thinks  the  same. 
The  interviewer  is  quite  right  in  saying  that  Mr.  Ellis 
has  friends  among  priests  as  well  as  among  agnostics  and 
Protestants;  these  men  are  his  friends  because  they  love 

134 


THE   LAKE 

learning,  not  because  they  hold  certain  views.  And  Mr. 
Ellis  thinks  that  he  is  justified  in  seeking  out  the  facts, 
and  the  search,  he  says,  is  conducted  not  only  in  the  in- 
terests of  science  but  also  of  theology;  for  though  history 
owes  nothing  to  theology,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the- 
ology owes  a  good  deal  to  history. 

"  In  many  ways  the  theologian  is  dependent  on  the 
historian,  and  what  is  there  unreasonable,  Mr.  Ellis  in- 
quires, in  asking  theologians  to  reconsider  doctrines 
raised  upon  doubtful  foundations?  True  that  the  theo- 
logians have  written  a  great  deal  and  that  it  will  be 
troublesome  for  them  to  revise  their  opinions ;  but  surely 
it  would  be  wiser  to  apply  themselves  to  this  task  than 
to  ask  historians  to  do  what  they  cannot  do — to  conceal 
or  to  falsify  facts.  The  theologian,  Mr.  Ellis  thinks,  is 
too  much  given  to  crying  out  that  the  latest  discoveries 
are  not  facts.  Well,  if  they  are  not  facts  they  are  worth- 
less, and  will  be  discarded.  Meanwhile,  you  think  that 
they  occasion  many  heresies.  Well,  that  is  a  misfortune ; 
but  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  must  go  on,  it  cannot  be 
stopped.  And  this  you  will  admit — that  science  is 
always  willing  to  rectify  any  error  she  may  fall  into. 

"  We  have  been  so  busy  with  the  last  chapters  of  '  The 
Source  of  the  Christian  River'  that  I  have  hardly  had 
time  to  see  the  park  and  the  house  and  the  river  that  runs 
under  the  hills.  But  last  evening  I  was  finished  earlier 
than  usual,  and  I  walked  in  the  beech  wood  with  Edith, 
listening  to  the  oars  fifty  or  sixty  feet  below  us;  we 
couldn't  see  the  boats  passing,  but  we  could  hear  the  oars 
chiming,  and  it  was  quite  dark  when  we  got  home.  It 

135 


THE   LAKE 

would  please  me  to  write  you  a  description  of  the  garden. 
The  carnations  are  just  coming  out.  If  I  am  here  when 
they  are  in  bloom  I  will  write  to  you  about  them;  but  I 
fear  we  shall  have  left,  for  we  are  going  abroad  as  soon 
as  the  book  has  been  passed  for  press.  I  will  write  to 
you  instead  from  abroad,  telling  you  about  cathedrals, 
pictures,  and  libraries,  and  about  the  great  men  we  shall 
see.  For  Mr.  Ellis  has  been  in  correspondence  from  time 
to  time  with  all  the  great  men  of  Europe — I  mean  all 
those  who  are  occupied  with  the  same  work  as  himself. 
We  are  going  to  visit  them:  some  are  in  Amsterdam, 
some  are  in  Paris,  some  live  in  Switzerland.  Won't  it 
be  wonderful  seeing  them  and  hearing  them  talk?  I 
wish  I  understood  French  a  little  better,  and  I  hardly 
know  any  German.  Edith  is  going  with  us,  for  we  are 
going  to  Bayreuth  to  hear  Wagner  and  to  Munich  to 
hear  Mozart. 

"  But  what  will  you  be  doing  all  this  time,  dear 
Father  Gogarty?  Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to 
talk  to  me  about  the  lake  and  its  castles  and  the  hermit? 
You  had  never  been  to  Church  Island,  though  you  once 
lived  very  near  it,  and  you  told  me  a  hermit  poet  lived 
there  once — you  know  his  poetry.  Now,  why  don't  you 
go  there  and  write  about  the  place  he  lived  in,  and  trans- 
late his  poems  and  publish  them?  What  a  fascinating 
book  it  would  make — '  The  Story  of  a  Lake  and  its 
Castles!' 

"  I  should  like  to  go  on  writing,  but  I  must  really  stop 
now,  for  Edith  is  waiting  for  me  to  go  out  to  walk  with 
her.  Good-by,  Father  Gogarty ;  I  will  write  to  you  from 

136 


abroad.     I  do  not  know  from  where — from  Paris,  per- 
haps, or  from  Munich — but  I  will  write  to  you. 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  ROSE  LEICESTER." 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"July  29,  19—. 

"  DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER  : 

"  You  ask  me  to  tell  you  if  your  letters  interest  me. 
Indeed  they  do.  A  letter  from  you  relieves  the  tedium 
of  Garranard.  If  I  had  no  letter  to  look  forward  to  I 
wonder  how  the  days  would  pass,  so  laggard  have  they 
become;  almost  any  letter  would  be  welcome,  but  your 
letters  are  doubly  welcome,  so  lively  are  they,  so  like 
yourself.  You  set  the  scene  before  one  like  a  picture. 
I  can  see  you  and  Mr.  Ellis  together  in  the  library,  bend- 
ing over  the  writing  table,  you  on  one  side,  he  on  the 
other.  I  can  see  you  standing  on  the  high  steps  to  get 
down  a  tome.  You  were  always  eager  and  alert:  I  real- 
ize your  interest  in  the  preparation  of  this  book  so  well 
that  I  have  abandoned  hope  of  ever  being  able  to  get 
you  back  to  Garranard,  and  look  upon  my  drive  round 
the  lake  and  the  "interview  with  my  sister  as  a  sort  of 
dream.  One  dreams  many  things,  and  though  my  dream 
was  vain,  I  hope  you  will  not  look  upon  me  as  a  foolish 
person  because  I  once  dreamed  you  might  return  here. 
Everything  depends  on  the  point  of  view,  and  I  am  begin- 
ning to  understand  yours.  I  did  not  understand  it  when 
I  wrdte  before,  but  to-day  I  am  a  more  impartial  witness, 

137 


THE  LAKE 

and  I  admit  that  your  position  as  Mr.  Ellis's  secretary 
presents  a  unique  opportunity  of  educating  yourself.  So 
well  do  I  understand  your  point  of  view  now  that  I  am 
afraid  you  must  look  back  with  wonder — I  will  not  say 
with  horror — at  the  time  you  spent  in  Garranard  teach- 
ing little  barefooted  children  their  catechism  and  their 
ABC.  What  a  task  I  set  myself  to  persuade  you  to 
come  back  and  shut  yourself  up  in  a  convent  to  teach 
children  five-finger  exercises  or  to  listen  to  the  '  Moon- 
light Sonata  '  played  out  of  time,  with  a  liberal  sprinkling 
of  false  notes !  If  you  were  unsuited  to  Garranard  when 
you  were  here,  you  are  still  more  unsuited  to  it  to-day, 
and  I  doubt  if  I  should  try  to  persuade  you  to  return  even 
if  I  were  sure  to  succeed.  At  the  same  time,  I  cannot 
help  writing  to  remind  you  that  even  if  we  do  not  sacri- 
fice the  whole  of  our  lives  to  duty,  even  if  we  are  re- 
solved to  keep  some  corner  of  it  for  our  pleasure,  we  need 
not  regard  duty  as  a  mere  prejudice,  without  value  for 
those  who  have  gained  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  take 
their  lives  into  their  own  hands.  If  you  will  allow  me  to 
speak  quite  candidly,  I  will  tell  you  that  the  secretary 
does  not  seem  to  me  to  correspond  with  the  schoolmis- 
tress I  once  knew.  In  crossing  the  Channel  she  seems 
to  have  changed  a  good  deal.  There  is  a  likeness 
between  the  Irish  Rose  Leicester  and  the  English,  but 
I  like  the  Irish  better.  The  Irish  Rose  was  not  without 
a  sense  of  duty,  of  kindness  toward  others ;  whereas  the 
English  Rose  seems  bent  upon  a  life  of  pleasure,  intel- 
lectual and  worldly  adventures.  She  delights  in  the 
prospect  of  foreign  travel,  and  she  enjoys  the  luxury  of 

138 


THE   LAKE 

living  in  a  well-appointed  English  country  house.  She 
can  no  longer  write  of  the  trees  she  sees  from  the  library 
windows  when  she  raises  her  head  from  her  writing  with- 
out betraying  not  only  a  too  exclusive  admiration  for  all 
that  the  eye  may  see,  but  also  her  liking  of  a  life  of  ease 
and  comfort.  She  places  feeling  above  ideas,  and  re- 
gards our  instincts  as  our  sovereign  guides.  When  we 
find  ourselves  delighting  to  this  extent  in  the  sensible, 
we  may  be  sure  that  our  lives  have  wandered  far  away 
from  spiritual  things.  There  is  ever  a  divorce  between 
the  world  of  sense  and  the  world  of  spirit,  and  the 
question  of  how  much  love  we  may  expend  upon  exter- 
nal things  will  always  arise,  and  will  always  be  a  cause  of 
perplexity  to  those  who  do  not  choose  to  abandon 
themselves  to  the  general  drift  of  sensual  life.  This 
question  is  as  difficult  as  the  cognate  question  of  what 
are  our  duties  toward  ourselves  and  our  duties  toward 
others.  And  your  letters  raise  all  these  questions.  I 
ponder  them  in  my  walks  by  the  lake  in  the  afternoon. 
In  the  evening  in  my  house  on  the  hilltop  I  sit  thinking, 
seeing  in  imagination  the  country  where  I  have  been 
born  and  where  I  have  always  lived — the  lake  winding  in 
and  out  of  headlands,  the  high  road  shaded  by  sycamores 
at  one  spot,  a  little  farther  on  wandering  like  a  gray 
thread  among  barren  lands,  with  here  and  there  a  vil- 
lage, and  I  make  application  of  all  the  suggestions  your 
letters  contain  to  my  own  case.  Every  house  in  Garra- 
nard  I  know,  and  I  see  each  gable  end  and  each  doorway 
as  I  sit  thinking,  and  all  the  faces  of  my  parishioners. 
I  see  lights  springing  up  far  and  near.  Wherever  there 

139 


THE  LAKE 

is  a  light,  there  is  a  poor  family.  Upon  these  people  I 
am  dependent  for  my  daily  bread,  and  they  are  dependent 
upon  me  for  spiritual  consolation.  I  baptize  them,  I 
marry  them,  and  I  bury  them.  How  they  think  of  me 
I  know  not.  I  suppose  they  hardly  think  at  all.  When 
they  return  home  at  night  they  have  little  time  for  think- 
ing; their  bodies  are  too  fatigued  with  the  labor  of  the 
fields.  But  as  I  sit  thinking  of  them,  I  regret  to  say  that 
my  fear  often  is  that  I  shall  never  see  any  human  beings 
but  them;  and  I  dream  of  long  rambles  in  the  French 
country,  resting  at  towns,  reading  in  libraries.  A  voice 
whispers,  '  You  could  do  very  well  with  a  little  of  her 
life,  but  you  will  never  know  any  other  life  but  your 
present  one.'  A  great  bitterness  comes  up,  a  little 
madness  gathers  behind  the  eyes;  I  walk  about  the 
room,  and  then  I  sit  down  stunned  by  the  sudden  con- 
viction that  life  is,  after  all,  a  very  squalid  thing — some- 
thing that  I  would  like  to  kick  like  an  old  hat  down  a 
road. 

"  The  conflict  going  on  within  me  goes  on  within 
every  man,  but  without  this  conflict  life  would  be  super- 
ficial; we  shouldn't  know  the  deeper  life.  Duty  has  its 
rewards  as  well  as  its  pain,  and  the  knowledge  that  I  am 
passing  through  a  time  of  probationship  sustains  me.  I 
know  I  shall  come  out  of  it  all  a  stronger  man.  But  in 
addition  to  the  fact  that  I  am  passing  through  a  very 
trying  time  of  life,  accident  has  thrown  upon  my  shoul- 
ders an  exceptional  burden.  You  see,  I  was  guilty  of  a 
great  error  of  judgment.  Ah,  yes,  and  this  takes  me 
back  to  the  beginning  again.  I  drove  you  out  of  the 

140 


THE  LAKE 

parish.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  you  never  would  have 
known  Mr.  Ellis,  and  without  wishing  to  accuse  him  of 
deliberately  setting  himself  to  destroy  your  faith,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  you  are  living  in  an  essentially  un- 
christian atmosphere.  I  cannot  disguise  from  myself 
the  fact  that  if  you  lose  your  soul  God  will  hold  me  re- 
sponsible, and  think  of  what  this  means  to  one  who  still 
holds  by  the  Christian  faith. 

"  In  your  letter  you  defend  yourself,  using  very  spe- 
cious arguments  to  show  that  to  remain  Mr.  Ellis's  sec- 
retary is  not  beset  with  danger.  I  don't  know  if  the 
arguments  are  yours  or  Mr.  Ellis's.  Possibly  they  are 
Mr.  Ellis's,  and  I  can  imagine  him  priding  himself  upon 
this  phrase,  '  that  though  history  owes  nothing  to  the- 
ology, theology  owes  a  great  deal  to  history.'  A  neat 
phrase,  but  a  neat  phrase  does  not  settle  anything,  and 
the  matter  in  dispute  turns  on  this  point:  With  what  in- 
tention is  the  search  being  conducted?  Of  course,  we 
hear  a  great  deal  about  impartial  pursuit  of  knowledge, 
but  is  anything  impartial  in  this  world?  Will  Mr.  Ellis 
deny  that  the  upsetting  of  received  opinions  is  not  an  in- 
centive to  the  pursuit  of  knowledge?  Are  not  received 
opinions  the  quarry,  and  are  not  jubilant  horns  sounded 
when  a  sudden  hound  brings  the  quarry  to  bay,  though 
the  embaying  endures  but  a  moment?  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  an  impartial  search,  perhaps  not  on  our  side  any 
more  than  on  yours.  You  see,  I  have  said  on  yours. 
The  words  came  up,  and  I  wrote  them  without  thinking, 
prompted  by  my  instinct,  knowing  through  it  that  though 
to-day  you  flatter  yourself  that  you  are  merely  acquiring 
10  141 


THE  LAKE 

knowledge  without  drawing  conclusions,  the  day  will 
come  when  you  will  find  yourself  looking  upon  all  that 
you  once  held  sacred  and  divine  as  the  childish  efforts  of 
a  primitive  age  to  explain  the  enigma  of  life.  We  must 
either  believe  or  disbelieve.  There  is  no  middle  state, 
and  the  indifference  on  which  you  flatter  yourself  to-day 
will  pass  into  unbelief.  I  foresee  the  day  when  you  will 
take  up  your  pen  to  write  to  me,  and  lay  it  down,  saying, 
'  Why  should  I  write?  What  have  I  got  to  write  about? 
Poor  man!  he  is  but  a  survival  of  the  world's  childhood.' 
You  will  certainly  come  to  think  like  this  if  you  remain 
Mr.  Ellis's  secretary,  and  you  will  continue  to  think  like 
this  as  long  as  you  have  got  good  health.  You  are  going 
abroad  to  visit  museums,  to  read  books,  to  hear  music,  to 
meet  learned  men,  but  the  day  will  come  when  these 
things  will  cease  to  interest  you.  Then  religion  will  come 
to  you,  take  you  by  the  hand,  and  lead  you  all  the  way 
back,  just  as  a  child  is  led  by  its  mother." 

The  room  had  gradually  darkened;  he  could  hardly 
see  what  he  was  writing,  and  the  silence  was  so  intense 
that  it  caught  his  ear,  and^  going  to  the  window,  he  longed 
for  something  to  break  it,  and  was  glad  when  the  rain 
pattered  among  the  leaves.  The  trees  stood  stark 
against  the  sky;  their  green  was  unnatural;  they  seemed 
like  things  that  had  changed  color  through  fear.  The 
sheep  moved  toward  the  sycamores,  and  from  all  sides 
came  the  lowing  of  cattle.  A  flash  drove  him  back  from 
the  window.  He  thought  he  was  blinded.  The  thunder 
rattled;  it  was  as  if  a  God  had  taken  the  mountains  and 

142 


THE  LAKE 

was  shaking  them  together.  Crash  followed  crash,  the 
rain  came  down ;  it  was  as  if  the  rivers  of  heaven  had  been 
opened  suddenly.  Once  he  thought  the  storm  was  over: 
but  the  thunder  crashed  again,  the  rain  began  to  thicken ; 
there  was  another  flash  and  another  crash,  and  the  pour 
began  again.  But  all  the  while  the  storm  was  wearing 
itself  out,  and  he  began  to  wonder  if  a  sullen  day,  ending 
in  this  apocalypse,  would  pass  into  a  cheerful  evening. 
It  seemed  as  if  it  would,  for  a  little  space  of  blue  had 
begun  to  appear  between  the  drifting  clouds;  veils  of 
vapor  were  drifting  westward,  threatening  every  moment 
to  blot  out  the  blue  space,  but  the  clouds  continued  to 
brighten  at  the  edges.  "  The  beginning  of  the  sunset," 
the  priest  said;  and  he  went  out  on  his  lawn  and  stood 
watching  the  swallows  in  the  shining  air,  their  dipping, 
swerving  flight  showing  against  a  background  of  dappled 
clouds.  Never  had  he  known  so  extraordinary  a  change, 
and  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  refreshened  air,  in  the 
clear  and  exhilarating  evening,  thinking  that,  after  all, 
he  had  much  to  be  thankful  for.  Rose  was  never  very 
strong.  Her  health  would  not  have  lasted  trudging  from 
street  to  street,  teaching  the  piano  at  two  shillings  an 
hour,  returning  home  late  at  night  to  a  poky  little  lodg- 
ing, eating  any  fobd  a  landlady  might  choose  to  give  her. 
So  perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  she  had  met  Mr.  Ellis. 
She  would  have  had  great  difficulty  in  supporting  herself 
and  her  baby.  He  was  moved  to  think  of  her  child,  and 
it  pleased  him  to  imagine  it  as  very  like  its  mother.  No 
doubt  it  had  fair  hair.  He  would  like  to  see  her  child  if 
he  went  to  London.  She  would  probably  be  anxious 


THE   LAKE 

about   it.     And   going  into  the  house,  he  added   this 
paragraph : 

"  I  was  interrupted  while  writing  this  letter  by  a  sud- 
den darkening  of  the  light,  and  when  I  went  to  the  win- 
dow the  sky  seemed  to  have  sunk  close  to  the  earth,  and 
there  was  a  dreadful  silence  underneath  it.  I  was  driven 
back  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  the  thunder  was  terrify- 
ing. A  most  extraordinary  storm.  When  the  rain 
ceased  I  went  out,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  the  change 
— the  lake  mysteriously  shrouded  in  mist,  the  ducks  talk- 
ing softly  in  the  reeds,  and  the  swallows  high  up,  ad- 
vancing in  groups  like  dancers  on  a  background  of  dap- 
pled clouds. 

"  I  have  come  back  to  add  a  few  more  lines  to  my  let- 
ter. I  feel  I  have  lived  too  long  by  this  lake's  side,  and 
I  am  thinking  of  going  to  London.  All  you  have  said 
about  Father  O'Grady  has  interested  me  very  much;  I 
long  to  make  his  acquaintance.  I  suppose  it  was  he  who 
baptized  your  child.  You  have  never  written  to  me  a 
word  on  this  subject ;  I  do  not  know  if  your  baby  is  alive. 
If  I  go  to  London,  would  you  like  me  to  go  to  see  your 
baby?  Father  O'Grady  and  I  will  go  together  to  see  the 
child,  and  I  will  write  to  you  about  her.  You  will  be 
glad,  no  doubt,  to  hear  that  she  is  going  on  well. 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 


144 


THE   LAKE 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,   BOHOLA, 

"August  1 6,  19—. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  dear  friend,  but  I  am  compelled  to 
write  to  apologize  for  the  introduction  of  my  troubles  of 
conscience  and  my  anxiety  for  your  spiritual  welfare  into 
my  last  letter.  You  found  a  way  out  of  difficulties — diffi- 
culties into  which  I  plunged  you.  But  we  will  say  no 
more  on  that  point;  enough  has  been  said.  You  have 
created  a  life  for  yourself.  You  have  shown  yourself  to 
be  a  strong  woman  in  more  ways  than  one,  and  are  en- 
titled to  judge  whether  your  work  and  the  ideas  you  live 
among  are  likely  to  prove  prejudicial  to  your  faith  and 
morals.  Only  such  an  exceptional  woman  as  you  cer- 
tainly are  would  have  been  able  to  forgive  me ;  and  I  have 
often  run  over  in  my  mind  the  mean,  sordid  little  letter, 
full  of  hatred,  that  the  ordinary  woman  would  have  sent 
to  me,  and  how  falsely  she  would  have  represented  me 
to  Father  O'Grady. 

"  By  a  virtue  of  forgiveness,  which  I  admire  and  thank 
you  for,  you  write  telling  me  of  the  literary  work  you  are 
engaged  upon.  If  I  had  thought  sufficiently  before  writ- 
ing the  letter  I  arri  now  apologizing  for,  I  could  not  have 
failed  to  see  that  you  write  to  me  because  you  would 
relieve  my  loneliness  as  far  as  you  are  able.  But  I  did 
not  think  sufficiently:  I  yielded  to  my  mood.  I  see  now 
that  the  letters  I  send  you  are  disgracefully  egotistical, 
and  very  often  absurd ;  for  do  I  not  beg  of  you  to  remem- 
ber that  since  God  will  hold  me  responsible  for  your 

US 


THE   LAKE 


soul  it  would  be  well  that  you  should  live  a  life  of  vir- 
tue and  renunciation,  in  order  that  I  shall  be  saved  the 
humiliation  of  looking  down  from  above  upon  you  in 
hell? 

"  Loneliness  begets  sleeplessness,  and  sleeplessness 
begets  a  sort  of  madness.  I  suffer  from  nightmare,  and 
I  cannot  find  words  to  tell  you  how  terrible  are  the  vi- 
sions one  sees  at  dawn.  It  is  not  so  much  that  one  sees 
unpleasant  and  ugly  things — life  is  not  always  pretty  or 
agreeable,  that  we  know — but,  when  one  lies  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  life  itself  is  presented  to  one  in  the 
most  horrible  and  mean  aspects,  and  it  is  whispered  that 
one  has  been  duped  till  now;  that  now,  and  for  the  first 
time,  one  knows  the  truth.  You  know  how  the  wind 
wails  about  the  hilltop  on  which  I  live;  I  think  the  con- 
stant wail  of  the  wind  has  something  to  do  with  my  con- 
dition of  mind.  One  cannot  sit  from  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  till  twelve  at  night  staring  at  the  lamp,  hearing 
the  wind,  and  remain  perfectly  sane. 

"  But  what  is  it  to  you  that  I  suffer  from  nerves  ? 
Perhaps  I  shall  be  making  amends  for  these  explanations 
by  telling  you  that  I  derived  great  benefit  from  your  let- 
ter. And  a  sentence  I  had  overlooked  is  the  cause  of  my 
present  happiness.  You  reminded  me  in  your  last  letter 
that  we  used  to  talk  together  of  medieval  Ireland,  about 
the  lake  and  its  castles;  you  even  remembered  that, 
though  I  had  lived  near  it,  I  had  never  visited  Church 
Island.  So  I  resolved  to  repair  at  once  this  extraor- 
dinary omission.  If  there  had  been  a  boat  here  I  should 
have  rowed  myself  through  the  strait  and  along  the 

146 


THE   LAKE 

shores,  seeing  Castle  Carra  and  Castle  Burke  as  I  passed. 
But  Church  Island  is  nearly  eight  miles  from  here,  and  I 
don't  know  if  I  should  have  been  man  enough  to  pull  the 
fisherman's  boat  so  far.  His  boat  is  always  away  at  Tin- 
nick,  so  I  put  the  gray  horse  into  the  shafts  and  went 
round  by  road. 

"  Church  Island  lies  in  a  bay  under  a  rocky  shore. 
A  farmer  cuts  grass  there  in  the  summer-time;  he  has  a 
boat  to  bring  away  the  hay,  and  it  was  quite  a  special  ex- 
citement to  get  into  it,  and  as  the  oars  chimed  I  said  to 
myself,  '  To-day  I  shall  see  where  the  poet  hermit  lived/ 
for  I  had  his  poem  in  my  pocket,  and  I  said,  '  I  will  read 
it  walking  up  the  little  path  leading  from  his  cell  to  his 
church.'  The  lake  was  like  a  sheet  of  blue  glass,  the  sky 
was  paler  blue  overhead,  and  the  island  lay  yellow  and 
red  in  the  blue  lake.  As  we  passed,  seeking  a  landing 
place,  the  smell  of  the  autumn  leaves  mingled  with  the 
freshness  of  the  water.  Tall  trees  grow  along  its  shores, 
their  branches  reflected  in  the  lake.  Up  a  beautiful  little 
inlet  overhung  with  bushes  we  went.  The  quay  is  at  the 
end  of  it. 

"  On  getting  out  of  the  boat  I  asked  the  boatman  to 
point  out  to  me  what  remained  of  Marban's  church,  and 
he  led  me  across -the  island.  I  was  surprised  at  the  size 
of  this.  It  is  the  largest  in  the  lake — not  less  than  six  or 
seven  acres,  and  no  doubt  some  parts  of  it  were  once  cul- 
tivated by  Marban.  But  very  little  remains  of  his  church 
— only  one  piece  of  wall,  and  we  had  great  difficulty  in 
seeing  it,  for  it  is  now  surrounded  by  a  dense  thicket. 
The  little  pathway,  however,  leading  from  his  cell  to  the 

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THE   LAKE 

church  still  exists;  it  is  almost  the  same  as  he  left  it — a 
little  overgrown,  that  is  all. 

"  Marban  was  no  ordinary  hermit ;  he  was  a  sympa- 
thetic naturalist,  a  true  poet,  and  his  brother  who  came  to 
see  him,  and  whose  visit  gave  rise  to  the  colloquy,  was  a 
king.  I  hope  I  am  not  wronging  Marban,  but  the  island 
is  so  beautiful  that  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  he  was 
attracted  by  its  beauty — he  went  there  because  he  loved 
Nature  as  well  as  God.  His  poem  is  full  of  charming 
observations  of  Nature,  of  birds  and  beasts  and  trees,  and 
it  proves  how  very  false  the  general  idea  is  that  primitive 
man  had  no  eyes  to  see  the  beauties  of  the  forest  and 
felt  no  interest  in  the  habits  of  animals  or  of  birds,  but 
regarded  them  merely  as  food.  It  pleases  me  to  think 
of  the  hermit  sitting  under  the  walls  of  his  church  or  by 
his  cell  writing  the  poem  which  has  given  me  so  much 
pleasure,  including  in  it  all  the  little  lives  that  came  to 
visit  him — the  birds  and  the  beasts;  enumerating  them 
as  carefully  as  Wordsworth  would,  and  loving  them  as 
tenderly.  Marban!  Could  one  find  a  more  beautiful 
name  for  a  hermit?  Guaire  is  the  brother's  name.  Mar- 
ban  and  King  Guaire.  ^Now,  imagine  the  two  brothers 
meeting  for  a  poetic  disputation  regarding  the  value  of 
life,  and  each  speaking  from  his  different  point  of  view! 
True,  that  Guaire's  point  of  view  is  only  just  indicated — 
he  listens  to  his  brother,  for  a  hermit's  view  of  life  is 
more  interesting  than  a  king's.  It  pleases  me  to  think 
that  the  day  the  twain  met  to  discourse  of  life  and  its  mis- 
sion was  the  counterpart  of  the  day  I  spent  on  the  island. 
It  was  full  of  drifting  cloud  and  sunshine,  and  the  lake  lay 

148 


THE  LAKE 

like  a  mirror  reflecting  the  red  shadow  of  the  island.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  reasons  Marban  gave  for  living 
there  in  preference  to  living  the  life  of  the  world  are 
valid,  and  I  could  not  help  peering  into  the  bushes,  trying 
to  find  a  rowan  tree,  for  he  speaks  of  one.  The  rowan 
is  the  mountain  ash.  I  found  several,  one  beautiful  tree 
covered  with  red  berries,  and  I  broke  off  a  branch  and 
brought  it  home,  thinking  that  perchance  it  might  be 
descended  from  the  one  planted  by  Marban's  hand.  Of 
blackthorns  there  are  plenty.  The  adjective  he  uses  is 
'  dusky.'  Could  he  have  chosen  a  more  appropriate  one? 
I  thought,  too,  of '  the  clutch  of  eggs,  the  honey  and  the 
mast  that  God  sent  him,  of  the  sweet  apples  and  red 
whortleberries,  and  of  his  dish  of  strawberries  of  good 
taste  and  color.' 

"  It  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  in  an  English  transla- 
tion of  the  richness  of  the  verse,  heavily  rhymed  and 
beautifully  alliterated,  but  you  will  see  that  he  enumer- 
ates the  natural  objects  with  skill.  The  eternal  sum- 
mer— the  same  in  his  day  as  in  ours — he  speaks  of  as  '  a 
colored  mantle/  and  he  speaks  of  'the  fragrance  of  the 
woods.'  And  seeing  the  crisp  leaves,  for  the  summer 
was  waning,  I  repeated  his  phrase,  '  the  summer's  colored 
mantle,'  and  I  remembered  that  when  Guaire  reminded 
his  brother  that  he  was  without  music,  Marban  answered : 

'  Swarms  of  bees  and  chafers,  the  little  musicians  of  the  world, 
A  gentle  chorus.' 

'  The  wren,'  he  says,  '  is  an  active  songster  among  the 
hazel  boughs.  Beautifully  hooded  birds,  woodpeckers, 

149 


THE   LAKE 

fair  white  birds,  herons,  seagulls,  come  to  visit  me/ 
There  is  no  mournful  music  in  his  island;  and  as  for 
loneliness,  there  is  no  such  thing  in — 

'  My  lowly  little  abode,  hidden  in  a  mane  of  green-barked  yew 

tree. 

Near  is  an  apple  tree, 
Big  like  a  hostel ; 
A  pretty  bush,  thick  as  a  fist  of  hazelnuts ;  a  choice  spring,  and 

water  fit  for  a  prince  to  drink. 
Round  it  tame  swine  lie  down, 
Wild  swine,  grazing  deer, 
A  badger's  brood, 

A  peaceful  troop,  a  heavy  host  of  denizens  of  the  soil 
A-trysting  at  my  house. 
To  meet  them  foxes  come. 
How  delightful ! ' 

"  The  island  is  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  shore, 
and  I  wondered  how  the  animals  crossed  from  the  main- 
land as  I  sat  under  the  porch  of  the  ruined  church.  I 
suppose  the  water  was  shallower  than  it  is  now.  But 
why  and  how  the  foxes  came  to  meet  the  wild  swine  is 
a  matter  of  little  moment;  suffice  it  that  he  lived  in  this 
island  aware  of  its  loneliness,  '  without  the  din  of  strife, 
grateful  to  the  Prince  who  giveth  every  good  to  me  in 
my  bower.'  And  Guaire  answered: 

'  I  would  give  my  glorious  kingship 
With  my  share  of  our  father's  heritage — 
To  the  hour  of  my  death  let  me  forfeit  it — 
So  that  I  may  be  in  thy  company,  O  Marban.' 

"  There  are  many  such  beautiful  poems  in  early  Irish. 
I  know  of  another,  and  I'll  send  it  to  you  one  of  these 

150 


THE   LAKE 

days.  In  it  a  monk  describes  how  he  and  his  cat  sit 
together,  himself  puzzling  out  some  literary  or  historical 
problem,  the  cat  thinking  of  hunting  mice,  and  how  the 
taste  of  each  is  difficult  and  requires  much  patience. 

"  Ireland  had  certainly  attained  to  a  high  degree  of 
civilization  in  the  seventh  and  eighth  centuries,  and  if 
the  Danes  had  not  come  and  interrupted  the  renaissance — 
the  first  of  all  the  renaissances — Ireland  might  have 
rivaled  Italy.  The  poems  I  speak  of  are  more  beautiful 
than  any  that  were  written  in  Europe  at  that  time, 
whether  we  search  Italy  or  France  or  England.  I  never 
read  poems  I  like  better.  I  like  them  much  better  than 
the  bardic  tales,  senseless  in  descriptions  of  slaughter. 

"  I  write  these  things  to  you  because  I  wish  you  to 
remember  that,  when  religion  is  represented  as  hard  and 
austere,  it  is  the  fault  of  those  who  administer  religion, 
and  not  of  religion  itself.  Religion  in  Ireland  in  the 
seventh  and  eighth  centuries  was  clearly  a  homely  thing, 
full  of  tender  joy  and  hope,  and  the  inspiration  not  only 
of  poems,  but  of  many  churches  and  much  ornament  of 
all  kinds,  illuminated  missals,  carven  porches.  If  Ireland 
had  been  left  to  herself — if  it  had  not  been  for  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Danes,  and  the  still  worse  invasion  of  the 
English — there  is  no  saying  what  high  place  she  might 
not  have  taken  in  the  history  of  the  world.  But  I  am 
afraid  the  halcyon  light  that  paused  and  passed  on  in 
those  centuries  will  never  return.  We  have  gotten  the 
afterglow,  and  the  past  should  incite  us,  and  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  reminding  me  that  the  history  of  the 
lake  and  its  castles  would  make  an  interesting  book.  I 


THE  LAKE 

will  try  to  write  this  book:  I  shall  look  forward  to  the 
day  when  I  shall  send  you  a  copy  of  the  work,  if  God 
gives  me  strength  and  patience  to  complete  it.  Little 
is  ever  completed  in  Ireland.  .  .  .  But  I  mustn't  begin 
to  doubt  before  I  begin  the  work,  and  while  you  and 
Mr.  Ellis  are  studying  dry  texts,  trying  to  prove  that 
the  things  that  men  have  believed  and  loved  for  centuries 
are  false,  I  shall  be  engaged  in  writing  a  sympathetic 
history — the  history  of  natural  things  and  natural  love. 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 


IX 


From  Miss  Rose  Leicester  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"HOTEL  BELVIDERE,  MUNICH, 
"September  2,  19 — . 

I  AM  glad  my  letters  interest  you;  if  I  didn't  think 
they  did,  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  write  any  more. 
And  that  would  be  a  pity,  especially  now  I  am 
traveling.  This  journey  means  a  great  deal  to  me:  it  is 
a  thing  that  may  never  happen  again  in  my  life,  and  if 
I  don't  write  down  my  impressions  they  will  pass  away 
like  the  clouds.  However  intense  our  feelings  may  be 
at  the  time,  a  few  hours  obliterate  a  good  deal,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  fortnight  nearly  everything  but  the  facts  are 
forgotten.  I  discovered  this  yesterday  as  I  sat  thinking, 
trying  to  remember  something  that  had  been  said  on  a 
balcony  overlooking  the  Rhine.  That  I  could  not  recol- 
lect what  Mr.  Ellis  had  said  frightened  me,  not  because 
what  he  had  said  was  of  any  importance  or  of  any  par- 
ticular interest,  but  because  rny  forgetfulness  assured  me 
that  I  had  only  to  wait  a  little  while  for  everything  to 
become  dim.  '  Those  days  in  Holland,'  I  said,  '  at 
present  as  distinct  in  my  mind  as  any  one  of  the  pictures 
I  admired,  will  fade  away.'  I  asked  myself  if  I  had 
forgotten  our  journey  from  London  from  the  time  we 
left  Charing  Cross  till  we  got  to  Norwich,  and  to  my 

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THE  LAKE 

great  disappointment  I  found  that  very  little  remained. 
Of  our  journey  to  the  coast  I  only  remembered  that  I 
had  sat  at  the  window  thinking  the  sunset  very  beautiful, 
saying  to  myself,  *  I  shall  never  forget  what  I  am  think- 
ing and  feeling  now.'  Everything  grew  more  and  more 
wonderful  as  we  passed  into  the  country,  and  I  became 
entirely  aware  of  myself.  Edith  was  reading  a  novel, 
Mr.  Ellis  was  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  evening 
paper,  and  I  didn't  wish  my  admiration  of  the  sunset  to 
be  interrupted  by  any  word. 

"  The  world  has  seen  many  sunsets,  but  every  one 
is  wonderful  to  him  or  her  whose  life  is  at  crisis.  And 
wasn't  my  life  at  crisis?  Such  peaceful  shadows,  such 
hallowed  lights !  My  mood  was  exalted,  as  well  it  might 
be,  for  was  not  my  dream  coming  true?  Was  I  not 
going  abroad  with  Mr.  Ellis  and  his  daughter  on  a 
journey  of  art  and  literature,  going  to  travel  through 
many  countries — Holland,  Belgium,  and  Germany — to 
stop  at  various  cities,  to  meet  distinguished  men?  My 
head  was  filled  with  thoughts  about  life  and  the  wonder 
of  life;  I  should  have  written  down  my  thoughts — they 
were  worth  writing  down — but  I  neglected  to  do  so,  and 
they  are  gone  forever.  I  might  easily  have  done  so  when 
we  got  on  board  the  boat. 

"  I  told  you  in  a  former  letter  that  Mr.  Ellis's  descrip- 
tions of  the  desert  were  written  in  his  tent  every  night 
before  going  to  sleep.  So  I  might  have  known  that  I 
should  forget;  but  the  experience  of  others  teaches  us 
nothing.  I  lacked  courage  to  separate  myself  from  my 
companions;  a  great  deal  of  courage  would  have  been 

154 


THE   LAKE 


required  to  have  gone  down  into  a  stuffy  cabin  to  take 
notes.  For  the  evening  was  beautiful  and  calm,  and  I 
wanted  to  admire  the  eastern  coast,  its  low  sand  dunes 
running  into  headlands,  and  the  sea  spreading  to  the 
horizon  pale  and  gray,  and  so  still  that  I  had  to  compare 
it  to  the  floor  of  a  ballroom ;  the  stars  were  like  candles, 
and  the  moon  like  a  great  lamp.  Presently  a  little  mist 
gathered  on  the  water,  and  no  sound  was  heard  except 
the  churning  of  the  paddle  wheels.  I  feared  seasickness, 
for  Edith  had  told  me  how  ill  she  once  was  crossing  from 
Calais  to  Dover ;  but  there  was  no  danger  of  seasickness, 
and  we  stood  looking  over  the  bulwarks  seeing  the  white 
track  of  the  vessel  disappearing  behind  us.  We  heard 
the  captain  cry  '  Starboard ! '  to  the  helmsman,  and  the 
ship  veered  a  little. 

"  Edith  and  I  lay  down  on  a  bench,  and  Mr.  Ellis 
came  up  from  the  cabin  with  rugs  and  tucked  them  about 
us.  He  was  very  kind.  We  slept  a  little,  but  my  sleep 
was  lighter  than  Edith's,  and  in  a  couple  of  hours  I  got 
up  without  waking  her.  The  vessel  excited  my  curiosity, 
and  I  wandered  about,  vaguely  interested  in  the  sailors, 
trying  to  think,  unable  to  do  so,  for  my  mind  was  tired, 
and  refused  to  receive  any  further  impressions.  That 
was  the  time  I  should  have  gone  down  to  the  cabin  to 
write ;  but  Mr.  Ellis  came  by,  and  we  stood  leaning  over 
the  bulwarks.  There  are  times  when  he  will  not  talk  at 
all,  and  one  wonders  what  he  is  thinking  about.  I  tried 
to  speak  to  him  about  his  book,  but  he  didn't  seem  in 
the  humor  to  talk  about  it.  So  I  went  back  and  lay  down 
beside  Edith.  She  was  sleeping  deeply:  but  I  couldn't 

155 


THE   LAKE 

sleep  at  all,  and  after  awhile  I  got  up.  This  time  it 
seemed  as  if  we  were  close  to  the  land ;  and  so  numerous 
were  the  lights  on  our  starboard  bow  that  I  thought  we 
were  passing  by  some  town.  Mr.  Ellis  said  he  thought 
they  were  the  lights  of  a  fleet  of  fishing  boats.  He  asked 
one  of  the  sailors,  but  he  couldn't  make  him  understand, 
for  the  sailor  was  a  Hollander.  I  begged  Mr.  Ellis,  who 
speaks  a  little  Dutch,  to  try  to  make  him  understand. 
I  wanted  to  hear  the  strange  language ;  for  it  would  make 
me  feel  I  was  going  to  countries  where  English  wasn't 
spoken,  and  where  everybody  thought  differently  from 
what  they  do  in  England  and  in  Ireland. 

"  The  conversation  between  Mr.  Ellis  and  the  Hol- 
lander didn't  seem  to  progress  toward  information 
regarding  the  lights  on  the  starboard  bow,  and  during 
the  whole  of  it  we  did  not  seem  to  get  away  from  them. 
I  suppose  Mr.  Ellis  must  have  misunderstood  the  sailor, 
or  the  sailor  must  have  misunderstood  him;  we  must 
have  been  steaming  all  the  while  along  the  shore.  And 
this  might  well  have  been  the  case,  for  Holland  is  only 
a  few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Later  on  we 
learnt — this  time  from  an  English  sailor — that  we  were 
off  the  coast,  and  were  steaming  at  half-speed  on  account 
of  the  mist.  The  fog  horn  sounded  continuously;  the 
ship's  course  was  changed  many  times.  It  appears  that 
the  navigation  of  this  coast  is  very  difficult.  The 
entrance  to  the  harbor  loomed  up  suddenly,  and  we 
admired  the  way  in  which  the  vessel  was  steered.  I  am 
sorry  I  didn't  take  a  few  notes,  for  the  scene  was  very 
impressive.  All  I  can  remember  of  it  now  is  that  the 

156 


THE   LAKE 

vessel  veered  many  times,  and  that  the  day  broke  slowly. 
Of  course  the  vessel  veered,  and  of  course  the  day  broke 
slowly,  and  the  dawn  is  silent  and  melancholy  as  a 
shroud;  everyone  knows  that.  But  there  is  much  else — 
how  the  light  changes,  and  the  town  emerges  out  of 
shadow.  One  should  write  'down  one's  impressions  at 
once,  as  Mr.  Ellis  did. 

"  The  journey  from  Flushing  to  The  Hague  is  only 
a  little  way ;  and  what  shall  I  tell  you  about  The  Hague  ? 
I  only  remember  one  thing  clearly — a  portrait  by  Rubens ; 
I  half  remember  a  portrait  by  Vandyke.  These  two  por- 
traits have  been  hung  together,  side  by  side,  no  doubt 
with  a  view  to  enabling  the  visitor  to  see  the  two  painters 
in  all  their  qualities.  Vandyke  was  Rubens's  pupil,  and 
at  first  sight  Vandyke's  portrait  seems  the  better;  for  it 
is  more  natural,  more  like  a  photograph,  and  I  said :  '  I 
like  the  Vandyke  best.'  Mr.  Ellis  said :  '  Do  you  know, 
I  think  I  do,  too; '  but  as  we  stood  looking  at  the  pictures 
I  saw  he  was  beginning  to  regret  his  words,  and  as  the 
thought  passed  through  my  mind  he  said :  '  We  have 
said  a  very  stupid  thing.  The  reason  why  we  preferred 
the  Vandyke  is  because  the  smaller  mind  always  attracts 
us  first.  Look  at  them.  How  much  nobler  is  the 
Rubens !  Vandyke-'s  mind  was  that  of  a  lackey.  Rubens's 
mind  was  more  lordly  than  any  lord's,  unless  that  lord 
were  Shakespeare.' 

"  And  no  sooner  had  he  spoken  than  I  began  to 

realize  the  nobility  of  Rubens's  mind.  The  women  Rubens 

chose  to  paint  are  what  are  known  as  fat  women,  and 

therefore  to  many  Rubens  is  a  vulgar  painter.     But  a 

11  157 


THE   LAKE 


loftier  vision  was  never  bestowed  on  man.  Rubens's 
women  are  beautiful,  but  they  are  not  what  the  man  in 
the  street  regards  as  a  pretty  woman.  They  are  his  own 
women,  and  they  are  women — not  creatures  without 
beards  or  mustaches.  And  he  praises  us  all  the  while 
in  his  own  benign  fashion.  Painters  are  never  more 
sympathetic  than  when  they  are  praising  women,  for 
man's  thoughts  about  woman  are  perhaps  his  most  inti- 
mate thoughts,  and  spring  from  the  very  depths  of  his 
nature. 

"  We  stood  looking  at  this  picture  for  a  long  time, 
and  we  returned  to  it  many  times,  and  every  moment 
I  seemed  to  see  more  and  more  clearly  that  this  was  the 
type  of  woman  that  corresponded  to  Rubens's  inward 
vision.  Great  men  bring  a  vision  into  the  world  with 
them;  they  are  not  distracted  by  passing  things  like 
inferior  men;  and  large,  fair  women,  fair  as  roses,  with 
pale  gold  hair  and  blue  eyes  and  white  curved  hands — 
Rubens  liked  curved  hands  and  almond  nails,  rose- 
colored — were  the  symbols  through  which  his  mind 
found  continual  expression.  I  feel  sure  that  if  his  model 
had  been  a  thin,  dark  woman,  as  she  must  sometimes  have 
been,  he  would  have  gradually  transformed  her  till  she 
corresponded  in  some  measure  with  his  idea:  it  could  not 
be  otherwise,  for  Rubens  wasn't  a  photographer. 

"  Looking  at  the  picture,  seeing  nothing  but  a  large, 
fair  woman,  fair  as  a  tea  rose,  the  superficial  will  say, 
'  a  gross  sensualist ' ;  but  the  great  man  always  presents 
his  work  in  a  form  which  deceives  the  public,  and  under- 
lying the  voluptuous  exterior  there  is  a  sadness  in 

158 


THE   LAKE 


Rubens  which  only  the  attentive  mind  perceives.  I  tried 
to  get  Mr.  Ellis  to  talk  about  this  picture  in  the  train, 
and  he  told  me  the  picture  was  a  portrait  of  Helena  Four- 
ment,  Rubens's  second  wife,  a  girl  whom  he  had  married 
late  in  life,  many  years  after  the  death  of  Isabelle 
Brandes.  Mr.  Ellis  thinks  he  was  drawn  to  her  by  the 
likeness  she  presents  to  his  first  wife.  That  was  all  he 
would  say.  He  lapsed  into  silence ;  I  couldn't  get  another 
word  from  him,  and  we  were  close  to  Amsterdam  when 
he  took  out  his  pocketbook.  After  writing  these  verses, 
he  handed  them  to  me : 

'  Pleine  de  grace  et  de  paleur 
Elle  vit  ainsi  qu'une  fleur, 
Evoquant  une  fraiche  odeur 
Par  la  transparente  couleur. 

4  Neanmoins  pour  toute  zhne  humaine, 
Sa  vie  inconsciente  et  saine 
Est  bien  1'apparence  certaine 
De  la  vie  ephemere  et  vaine.' 

"  You  will  wonder  why  Mr.  Ellis  should  write  French 
poetry  instead  of  English.  I  asked  him,  and  he  told  me 
that  to  write  mediocre  English  poetry  is  unpardonable, 
whereas  he  who  loves  verse  and  is  not  a  great  poet  may 
write  in  French,  just  as  a  nobleman  may  indulge  in 
private  theatricals,  but  should  refrain  from  the  public 
stage. 

" '  French  poetry  is  a  pretty  way  of  passing  the  time 
in  the  train,'  he  said. 

" '  A  pretty  way  for  you/  I  answered,  '  but  not  a 
159 


THE   LAKE 

pretty  way  for  your  companion;  for  I  am  really  tired  of 
studying  drainage.' 

"  At  first  he  did  not  understand,  and  I  added,  '  Look 
out.'  We  were  passing  through  flat  fields  intersected  with 
many  drains,  not  the  little  drains  that  one  sees  in  Ireland, 
but  great  deep  drains  representing  extraordinary  industry 
and  perseverance. 

"  '  These  drains/  I  said,  '  must  have  taken  weeks  and 
months  to  dig,  and  must  give  the  farmers  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  keep  free  from  weed.  I  should  go  mad  if 
I  were  to  live  here.  I  like  hill  and  dale.  Just  fancy  walk- 
ing for  miles  and  never  seeing  a  valley  or  a  hilltop ! ' 

" '  Holland  is  a  swamp/  he  answered ;  and  at  that 
moment  we  passed  a  field  flat  as  a  billiard  table  with  six 
drains  in  it,  and  this  field  was  followed  by  another  with 
six  more  drains.  But  the  Dutch  painters,  every  one  but 
two,  seem  to  have  loved  their  country.  Every  one  seems 
to  have  rejoiced  in  his  country's  platitude,  topographical 
and  domestic;  so  far  as  I  remember,  all  the  pictures  we 
saw  are  about  eating  and  drinking,  especially  drinking: 
coarse  tavern  revels,  servant  girls  dancing,  and  the  like. 
Only  two  painters  seem  to  have  escaped  the  influence  of 
their  surroundings:  Rembrandt  and  Ruysdael.  Rem- 
brandt I  shall  admire  some  other  time;  this  time  I  had 
very  little  thought  for  anyone  but  Ruysdael.  We  saw  two 
pictures  by  him  in  Amsterdam.  One  of  them  I  shall 
never  forget :  a  wild  hillside,  unreclaimed  and  unreclaim- 
able  nature;  only  a  woodman  dwells  there.  Some  poor 
fellow,  half  man,  half  beast,  has  built  himself  a  sheiling 
among  the  rocks.  The  roof  shows  against  a  gray  sky 

160 


THE   LAKE 

deeper  and  soberer  than  any  Irish  sky — a  real  Protestant 
sky.  Ruysdael  must  have  been  a  Protestant.  His  pic- 
tures are  even  Calvinistic,  or  perhaps  I  should  be  nearer 
the  truth  if  I  said  he  was  a  great  pessimist,  attached  to 
no  particular  doctrine.  He  reminds  Mr.  Ellis  more  of 
Spinoza  than  of  Milton.  I  have  not  yet  begun  to  read 
Spinoza,  but  I  have  read  a  little  of  '  Paradise  Lost,'  and 
it  never  interested  me  at  all,  whereas  Ruysdael  interested 
me.  I  seem  to  have  known  him  in  some  previous  exist- 
ence, so  clear  is  my  conception  of  this  moody  man,  whom 
I  see  wandering  by  himself  in  lonely  places,  in  sparsely 
populated  districts,  sometimes  miles  and  miles  away  from 
human  habitation,  speaking  to  no  one  except,  perhaps,  a 
charcoal  burner,  in  whose  hut  he  lies  down  at  night.  At 
daybreak  I  see  him  wandering  away  by  himself,  con- 
tinually making  drawings.  But  where  did  he  find  the 
scenes  he  painted?  Not  in  Holland,  surely.  There  are 
no  waterfalls  nor  mountains  in  Holland,  nor,  so  far  as 
I  know,  a  forest;  not  a  single  rough  wood  did  we  see. 
He  must  have  gone  to  Norway  to  paint. 

"  It  appears  that  nothing  is  known  about  him  except 
the  dates  of  his  birth  and  death.  Berghem  and  Dujardin 
painted  figures  into  his  pictures,  so  he  must  have  been 
the  friend  of  these  painters,  and  I  can  imagine  his  face 
lighting  up  when  he  saw  them.  I  can  imagine  their  talks ; 
sometimes  their  talk  was  pleasant,  and  anecdotes  were 
told  or  hinted  at,  but  no  one  could  have  dared  to  speak 
very  openly  of  light  things  in  Ruysdael's  presence.  But 
what  I  can  imagine  most  distinctly  of  all  is  his  good-by. 
When  he  bade  them  good-by  his  original  nature,  for- 

161 


THE   LAKE 

gotten  for  a  time,  returned  to  him,  a  sadness  came  into 
his  voice.  I  am  sure  his  good-by  was  a  sad  one;  I  am 
sure  it  resembled  an  amen.  '  So  be  it,  so  much  life  is  over 
and  done  with.' 

"  I  said  just  now  that  he  probably  went  to  Norway 
to  paint.  However  this  may  be,  he  seems  to  have  dis- 
liked the  Dutch  country  as  much  as  I  do.  But  if  I  dis- 
liked the  Dutch  country  as  much  as  he,  I  love  the  Dutch 
towns  as  much  as  any  one  of  the  painters,  not  excepting 
Van  de  Meer,  who,  I  feel,  must  have  loved  them  very 
much.  I  remember  one  street,  just  the  street  that  Van 
de  Meer's  studio  window  should  have  looked  out  on. 
Edith  and  I  used  to  sit  there  on  a  bench  watching  the 
pretty  morning  sunlight,  and  the  little  breezes  lifting  the 
foliage  of  the  trees.  It  was  a  broad  street,  and,  I  need 
not  say,  it  was  level.  You  must  remember  that  every- 
thing is  level  in  Holland.  The  houses  are  low,  and  they 
have  nice  shutters  and  doorways;  and  what  makes  the 
street  so  attractive  are  the  dog  carts.  Carts  drawn  by 
dogs  were  always  going  by,  and  wagons  drawn  by  oxen. 
Life  seems  more  docile  and  quiet  in  Holland  than  else- 
where, and  for  this  reason  I  like  Holland,  and  I  think 
I  shall  always  remember  this  street.  The  great  Pro- 
fessor   lives  in  a  little  house  at  the  end  of  it,  with 

one  servant,  and  when  we  went  to  see  him  I  watched 
her  peeling  onions  in  the  courtyard,  and  I  thought  of  the 

pictures  we  had  seen  in  the  galleries.     Professor is 

a  nice  old  man,  short  and  fat,  and  he  wore  a  red  dressing 
gown.  His  furniture  was  the  same  as  one  sees  in  hotels — 
sofas  and  chairs  covered  with  plush,  and  everywhere 

162 


THE   LAKE 

there  were  books  and  manuscripts.  I  think  there  were 
more  reviews  than  newspapers.  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  so  many  reviews ;  every  corner  was  rilled  with  them. 
He  and  Mr.  Ellis  talked  in  French,  so  it  was  difficult  for 
me  to  follow  the  conversation.  I  heard,  however,  the 
names  of  my  good  friends,  Jeremiah  and  Hosea  and 
Amos.  Esdras  came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  criticism,  that 
I  know,  for  Mr.  Ellis  dictated  to  me  the  professor's 
views  on  the  worthy  Esdras,  and  these  views,  it  appears, 
are  most  important. 

"  When  we  got  out  of  the  house  he  explained  to  me 
what  these  views  were.  But  I  have  got  so  much  else  to 
tell  you  that  we  will  omit  Esdras  from  this  letter. 
I  might  very  well  omit  the  mention  of  the  two  pic- 
tures that  hung  on  the  professor's  walls,  but  they  inter- 
ested me,  so  I  will  tell  you  that  they  were  two  portraits 
painted  by  Angelica  Kauffmann.  Now,  I  wonder  how 
these  two  portraits  of  pretty  women  ever  found  their  way 
into  the  professor's  house?  Did  the  professor  ever  care 
for  pretty  women,  I  wonder?  And  I  suppose  I  shall  go 
on  wondering,  for  my  curiosity  on  this  point  is  not  likely 
to  be  satisfied. 

"  From  Amsterdam  we  went  to  Haarlem  to  see  Hals's 
pictures,  and  we  saw  some  six  or  seven,  each  thirty  feet 
long  by  twenty  feet  high.  Burgomasters  in  profile,  burgo- 
masters in  full  face,  burgomasters  in  three-quarter  face. 
There  are  about  thirty  in  each  picture,  and  that  would 
make  180  heads,  360  hands — well,  perhaps  not  quite  so 
many,  perhaps  all  the  hands  are  not  shown.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  many  faultlessly  painted  swordhilts  and  scarfs 

163 


THE   LAKE 

these  pictures  contain ;  but  faultless  painting  wearies  one. 
Everything  is  so  perfect  that  the  pictures  lack  humanity. 
They  seem  a  little  mechanical.  Mr.  Ellis  calls  Hals  the 
maitre  d'armes  of  painting,  and  I  do  not  think  the  com- 
parison is  unappropriate.  He  is  the  undefeated  maitre 
d'armes,  he  whose  wrist  never  slackens,  over  whose  guard 
a  thrust  never  comes.  This  is  Mr.  Ellis's  picturesque  way 
of  expressing  himself.  I  think  a  somewhat  plainer  com- 
parison would  help  you  to  understand  why  I  don't  seem 
to  like  these  pictures.  I  cannot  admire  thirty  heads  all 
a-row.  Pictures  of  this  kind  reminded  me  too  much  of 
the  inside  of  omnibuses.  But  his  picture  of  the  old 
women,  a  picture  painted  when  he  was  eighty,  is  quite 
different.  It  is  full  of  emotion  and  beauty.  Hals  seems 
to  have  grown  tender  and  sentimental  in  his  old  age,  or 
was  it  that  he  merely  painted  these  old  women  to  please 
himself,  whereas  he  painted  the  burgomasters  at  so  much 
a  head?  There  is  no  suspicion  of  the  omnibus  in  the 
picture  of  the  old  women.  He  saw  them  together  in  the 
almshouse;  they  made  a  group,  a  harmony,  and  he  was 
moved  by  the  spectacle  of  the  poor  old  women,  fading 
like  flowers,  having  only^a  few  years  to  live — old  women 
in  their  last  shelter,  an  almshouse.  He  was  at  that  time 
as  old  as  any  of  his  sitters,  and  the  picture  of  the  old 
men  which  he  began  immediately  after  was  never 
finished.  I  suppose  that  one  morning  he  felt  unable  to 
paint ;  he  grew  fainter  and  died. 

"  When  one  has  seen  Hals  there  is  nothing  else  to 
see  in  Haarlem.  One  walks  about  until  the  train  comes 
to  take  one  away.  That  I  did  not  take  a  note  of  the 

164 


THE   LAKE 

weariness  I  experienced  during  one  dusty  afternoon  is 
not  a  matter  for  regret.  I  recollect  the  afternoon  suffi- 
ciently well — the  walk  along  the  dusty  roads  by  little 
woods  dusty  as  the  roads,  and  the  tea  we  had  at  a  very 
uncomfortable  hotel  in  a  barren  room.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  one  in  the  hotel  except  the  proprietor,  and  he 
cheated  us,  charging  two  shillings  for  a  cup  of  tea,  which 
made  Mr.  Ellis  very  angry.  The  railways  in  Holland  are 
small,  or  they  seem  small,  and  the  miserable  Dutch  land- 
scape irritated  me.  Hour  after  hour  I  sat  looking  at  flat 
fields.  Sometimes  I  counted  the  number  of  drains  in  each 
field.  I  don't  know  what  the  others  did ;  they  sat  in  the 
corner  of  the  carriage.  We  had  been  together  since  early 
morning,  and  were  a  little  tired  of  each  other.  I  don't 
think  any  of  us  had  anything  to  say.  You  can  hardly  be- 
lieve that  I  had  nothing  to  say.  Well,  believe  it  or  not, 
as  you  like,  but  I  didn't  speak  a  word,  and  when  I  don't 
speak  I  always  feel  cross. 

"  We  left  Haarlem  by  the  four  o'clock  train,  and  I  felt 
grateful  when  night  came  and  blotted  the  landscape  out. 
The  train  seemed  as  if  it  were  going  to  wriggle  on  for- 
ever; it  wriggled  into  and  out  of  many  a  little  station, 
and  we  were  so  hot  in  our  first-class  carriage  that  we  got 
into  a  third.  The"  change  was  a  pleasant  one.  After  a 
time  some  yokels  got  in,  and  they  reminded  us  of  the  pic- 
tures we  had  seen.  But  one  can't  go  on  considering  yokels 
forever,  and  at  last,  unable  to  contain  myself,  I  said: 

" '  Now,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Mr.  Ellis  ?  Do 
you  know  you  haven't  spoken  to  me  for  two  hours  ?  Are 
you  composing  a  new  French  poem  ?  ' 

165 


THE   LAKE 


" '  Well,  no ;  not  exactly.  But  the  rhymes  in  the 
second  stanza  of  the  little  poem  I  composed  in  the  train 
coming  from  The  Hague  are  all  adjectival,  and  in  French 
verse  adjectives  should  rhyme  as  much  as  possible  with 
verbs  and  substantives/ 

"  '  Do  you  think  you  have  improved  it  ? ' 
"  '  Yes,  I  think  I  have.    I'll  write  out  the  new  version.' 
"  And  with  the  gold  pencil  that  always  hangs  on  his 
chain  he  wrote : 

'  Dans  sa  gracieuse  paleur 
Elle  vit  ainsi  qu'une  fleur, 
EVoquant  une  fraiche  odeur 
Par  la  transparente  couleur. 

'  Loin  de  1'Emotion  charnelle 
Rubens,  oubliant  son  module, 
Pressentit  la  vie  e"ternelle 
Qui  s'encarae  un  moment  en  elle. 

'  Sa  pense'e  est  dans  cette  main, 
Dans  sa  pose  et  dans  son  dessin 
Et  dans  ses  yeux  pleins  du  chemin 
Que  traverse  le  coeur  humain. 

'  Ne'anmoins^>our  tout  ame  en  peine 
Que  son  calme  altier  rasserdne, 
Elle  est  1'image  souveraine 
De  la  vie  6phe"mere  et  vaine.' 

"  Next  day  we  went  to  the  cathedral,  but  we  were 
so  conscious  of  our  obligation  to  admire,  and  of  the 
gravity  of  our  visit,  that  we  experienced  a  sense  of  our 
unworthiness  when  we  first  saw  the  pictures  of  the 
Crucifixion.  We  wandered  from  one  to  the  other  a  little 

166 


THE   LAKE 

disconsolate,  shocked  to  find  that  they  did  not  seem  to 
us  nearly  as  intense  as  we  had  expected.  We  were  glad 
to  get  away  from  both,  and  we  found  the  '  Coronation 
of  the  Virgin/  which,  we  were  told,  had  been  repainted, 
much  more  to  our  taste.  But  Mr.  Ellis  does  not  believe 
in  the  story  of  the  repainting,  and,  while  we  stood  looking 
at  the  '  Ascent  of  the  Cross,'  he  told  us  that  the  greatest 
art  critic  that  ever  lived  preferred  the  '  Ascent '  to  the 
'  Descent.'  We  wondered  at  his  preference,  and  tried  to 
find  a  reason  for  it.  It  could  not  be  because  the  paint- 
ing of  the  '  Ascent '  seemed  to  him  better  than  the  first. 
The  painting  is  obviously  the  same;  the  pictures  differ 
in  conception  rather  than  in  execution.  Whereas  the 
'  Descent '  is  restrained  and  correct  in  drawing  even  to 
the  point  of  a  suspicion  of  pedantry,  the  '  Ascent '  is 
tumultuous  in  composition,  and  so  deliberately  reckless 
that  the  scene  fails  to  impress.  The  Middle  Ages  repre- 
sented the  scene  on  Calvary  with  great  realism,  but  the 
realism  of  the  Middle  Ages  was  sincere  and  childlike, 
quite  unlike  the  calculated  realism  of  Rubens — one  might 
almost  say  purposeful  realism ;  and  the  thought  came  by, 
whispering  in  our  ears,  that  the  explanation  of  the  differ- 
ence between  the  pictures  is  that  Rubens  had  begun  to 
weary  of  the  echoes  of  Greece  heard  in  Italy,  and  that 
the  second  picture  is  his  first  attempt  to  return  to  the 
primitive  art  of  his  own  country,  to  the  ages  of  faith,  to 
the  fifteenth  century,  which  in  the  low  country  was  the 
equivalent  to  the  fourteenth  century  in  Italy. 

"  I  am  quoting,  of  course,  from  Mr.  Ellis,  but  I  only 
quote  so  far  as  what  he  says  interests  me.     I  have  not 

167 


THE   LAKE 

been  to  Italy,  and  know  nothing  of  Italian  art  except  the 
pictures  I  saw  in  Amsterdam,  but  I  think  I  understand 
and  feel  quite  clearly  that  Mr.  Ellis  is  right  when  he  says 
that  Titian  never  designed  a  more  beautiful  young  man 
than  the  one  who  slips,  in  all  the  pallor  and  beauty  of 
death,  down  the  white  sheet  into  the  hands  of  devoted 
women.  The  Renaissance  made  Christ  beautiful.  It 
transformed  the  medieval  Victim  into  a  beautiful  youth 
who  preached  in  Galilee,  and  captivated  the  imaginations 
of  many  holy  men  and  women ;  but  this  Hellenization  of 
Christ — for  it  is  that  and  nothing  else,  the  intention  being 
to  draw  our  attention  to  bodily  perfection  rather  than  to 
show  us  a  suffering  Redeemer — is,  so  says  Mr.  Ellis,  a 
mistake  not  only  from  a  religious  point  of  view,  but  also 
from  a  dramatic.  For,  after  all,  sincerity  counts  for  a 
great  deal  in  our  enjoyment,  and  who  can  say  that 
Rubens  is  sincere  when  he  is  painting  a  crucifixion?  All 
the  while  he  is  trying  to  escape  from  his  subject;  and  I'm 
not  nearly  sure  but  he  would  have  been  a  greater  painter 
if  he  had  never  painted  Helena  Fourment  as  anything 
but  the  mother  of  his  children,  or  a  nymph  amid  a  group 
of  satyrs  and  fauns,  the  demi-animality  of  the  vales  of 
Thessaly.  As  Mr.  Ellis  said  yesterday,  supposing  the 
gentle  monk  of  Fiesole  had  been  forced  to  depict  a  wood- 
land revel,  with  Silenus  carried  by,  drunken,  with  vine 
leaves  in  his  hair,  he  would  certainly  have  failed  to  con- 
vey any  conceivable  idea  of  the  mythology  of  the  woods. 
We  shall  never  know  whether  Christ  was  a  beautiful 
youth  who  preached  about  Galilee,  or  an  emaciated  ascetic. 
Very  likely  He  was  one  and  the  other  at  different  times 

168 


THE   LAKE 

of  His  life.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  pictures  in  which  He 
is  represented  at  Cologne  carry  more  conviction  than 
those  of  Antwerp — the  bleeding  emaciated  Victim  is  more 
in  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  This  we  can  say  for  cer- 
tain, that  the  desire  of  the  Cologne  painters  was  not  to 
escape  from  the  subject,  but  to  approach  it  and  identify 
themselves  with  it. 

"  My  dear  Father  Gogarty,  you  must  forgive  my 
simplicity  of  expression.  You  complained  of  it  in  a  for- 
mer letter,  and  I  have  been  puzzling  ever  since  to  know 
what  you  meant.  So  long  as  I  do  not  say  anything 
against  faith  and  morals,  may  I  not  express  myself  fully 
and  clearly  ?  Is  it  not  true  that  the  Middle  Ages  are  al- 
ways considered  the  ages  of  faith  ?  and  is  it  not  true  that 
the  Middle-Age  representations  of  Christ  are  not  so 
lovely  as  the  Renaissance  ?  Will  you  be  shocked  if  I  ask 
you  how  it  is  that  the  bleeding  Victim  has  been  better 
worshiped  than  the  beautiful  young  man?  And  is  it 
wrong  for  me  to  ask  you  why  it  is  that  faith  goes  out  of 
the  window  when  beauty  comes  in  at  the  door? 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  consider  this  last  remark  un- 
seemly, but  you  will  forgive  me  nevertheless.  And  so 
that  I  may  not  offend  your  religious  sense  again,  I  will 
tell  you  no  more  about  pictures.  To  be  quite  truthful, 
I  am  a  little  tired  of  pictures ;  we  have  seen  too  many, 
and  I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  Cologne  and  to  stop  at 
little  towns  on  the  Rhine,  where  there  are  no  pictures — 
only  parks  and  pleasure  grounds,  with  walks  winding 
through  woods.  In  these  woods  one  comes  across  temples 
and  statues.  The  features  of  the  nymphs  and  the  fauns 

169 


THE  LAKE 

are  weatherworn,,  hardly  distinguishable,  and  I  think  I 
like  statues  better  when  the  hand  of  man  is  not  apparent 
upon  the  stone.  We  lost  ourselves  in  one  of  these  parks, 
and  were  very  much  afraid  we  should  be  captured  as 
trespassers;  but  we  got  out  without  being  perceived, 
across  a  little  wall,  and  an  hour  later  we  were  seated  on  a 
balcony  overlooking  the  river.  A  ferryboat  moved  back- 
ward and  forward  in  the  dusk,  across  the  slow  cur- 
rent. There  is  something  mysterious  in  a  river;  not  in 
a  babbling  river,  but  in  a  slow-flowing  river.  And  the 
Rhine  reminds  one  of  Time.  How  many  thousand  years 
has  the  Rhine  flowed !  Just  as  it  flowed  the  day  we  were 
at  Bopart  it  was  flowing  when  Wotan  was  God,  and  there 
were  nymphs  in  the  Rhine  watching  the  gold,  the  innocent 
gold,  that  Alberich  stole  from  them  and  converted  into 
money.  One  night  we  sat  on  a  balcony  drinking  Rhine 
wine,  talking  of  Siegfried  and  his  joyous  horn.  It  is 
worth  one's  while  to  live  in  Germany  for  the  sake  of  the 
wine,  and  I'm  sure  the  wine  we  drank  that  night  was  the 
same  as  the  wine  in  the  goblet  out  of  which  Siegfried 
drank  forgetfulness  of  Brunehild.  That  dinner  I  shall 
never  forget.  We  sat  leaning  over  the  dining  table  watch- 
ing the  Rhine,  hearing  the  Rhine;  and  when  the  waiter 
brought  candles  and  put  them  upon  our  table  we  didn't 
get  up,  but  we  talked  on  about  the  various  legends,  and 
how  they  were  woven  together.  Mr.  Ellis  was  the  talker, 
and  his  narrative  was  intermingled  with  anecdotes  about 
the  unhappy  life  of  the  great  man  who  had  woven  these 
stories  into  drama,  and  would  have  written  them  in  words 
if  he  had  been  Shakespeare;  but,  fortunately,  he  was 

170 


THE  LAKE 

not,  for  the  world  doesn't  want  two  Shakespeares.  Na- 
ture, as  Mr.  Ellis  says,  took  pity  upon  men ;  and  he  made 
up  this  little  parable  on  the  spot :  A  good  fairy  was  hid- 
ing among  the  flowers  in  a  garden,  probably  in  a  lily 
cup ;  and  when  no  one  was  about,  she  came  into  a  room 
where  a  chfld  was  sleeping,  and  she  said,  '  Thou  shalt 
weave  world  stories  into  dramas  as  beautiful  as  any  man 
has  ever  heard.'  But  there  was  a  bad  fairy  up  the  chim- 
ney who  heard  the  blessing,  and,  when  the  good  fairy 
went  away,  she  came  down  and  said, '  I  cannot  take  away 
my  sister's  gifts.  Thou  shalt  conceive  great  dramas,  but 
thou  shalt  not  have  the  power  to  write  them.' 

"  On  that  the  bad  fairy  went  up  the  chimney,  think- 
ing she  had  done  a  very  clever  thing.  But  the  good 
fairy,  who  hadn't  yet  fallen  asleep  in  the  cup  of  a  great 
lily  growing  by  the  window  sill,  came  into  the  room  again, 
and  looked  sorrowfully  at  the  cradle,  for  she  knew  not 
how  to  redeem  the  child  from  the  curse  that  had  been 
placed  upon  him.  Suddenly  an  idea  occurred  to  her.  '  I 
can't  take  off  the  curse  that  has  been  placed  upon  thee,' 
she  said.  '  Never  shalt  thou  write  thy  dramas  in  words, 
but  I  will  give  thee  music  to  write  them  with.'  .  .  .  And 
that  child  was  Richard  Wagner. 

"  There  was  a  piano  in  the  room  behind  the  balcony. 
We  went  to  it.  Mr.  Ellis  plays  intelligently.  As  he  puts 
it  himself,  he  plays  sufficiently  well  to  give  us  a  foretaste 
of  the  music  we  were  on  our  way  to  hear.  He  played  on, 
sketching  for  us  the  most  salient  things  in  '  The  Ring.' 
There  was  something  in  that  night  I  shall  never  meet 
again.  On  the  morrow  we  hastened  away.  We  were  still 

171 


THE   LAKE 

far  from  Bayreuth.    We  stopped  at to  admire  the 

cathedral,  and  then  we  started  off  again.  This  stage  was 
the  last  on  our  journey,  for  we  got  a  train  at  Nurem- 
berg, and  Bayreuth  is  but  a  couple  of  hours  from 
Nuremberg,  and  about  three  hours  from  Munich.  We 
heard  *  The  Ring '  at  Bayreuth,  and  we  shall  hear  it 
again  at  Munich.  It  will  be  as  well  done  at  Munich,  but 
I  feel  sure  it  will  not  be  the  same  thing.  To  hear  Wag- 
ner you  must  hear  him  where  he  chose  to  be  heard,  and 
he  knew  that  one  could  not  hear  the  '  Dusk  of  the 
Gods,'  for  instance,  amid  the  distractions  of  a  city.  One 
has  to  leave  all  things  and  to  follow  him  to  Bayreuth. 

"  The  town  is  full  of  the  florid  architecture  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  pillared  fagades  and  balconies,  and 
the  old  streets  are  paved  with  the  original  cobblestones. 
Millions  of  feet  will  pass,  bruised  and  aching,  but  the 
cobblestones  shall  never  pass  away,  and  they  hurt  one's 
feet  terribly.  When  the  midday  sun  shines  they  burn 
through  the  leather  sole.  Nevertheless,  I  would  not  have 
these  old  streets  torn  up  and  paved  in  asphalt  or  wood. 
The  cobblestones  are  part  of  the  entertainment.  They 
remind  one  that  one  4ias  to  suffer  for  the  master's 
sake.  And  these  streets  lead  from  open  space  to  open 
space,  by  red-brick  palaces  in  which  dukes  once  lived. 
Germany  is  full  of  palaces,  nearly  all  of  which  are  empty. 
One  can  obtain  permission  to  walk  through  the  rooms, 
but  I  don't  think  that  one  derives  any  special  benefit  from 
these  walks.  The  pictures  are  bad  and  the  furniture 
is  clumsy.  There  is  one  thing,  however,  extraordinarily 
beautiful  in  Bayreuth,  and,  like  everything  else  in  Bay- 

172 


THE   LAKE 

reuth,  it  seems  an  intrinsic  part  of  an  appreciation  of 
Wagner.  It  is  the  Court  Theater,  built  for  the  pleasure 
of  some  landgrave,  a  German  prince  or  duke.  I  do  not 
know  if  landgraves  existed  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
There  is  one  in  '  Tannhauser.'  '  Tannhauser '  is  tenth 
century ;  but  if  a  landgrave  existed  in  the  eighteenth, .  I 
should  have  liked  to  have  seen  him  coming  to  hear  a 
performance  in  this  beautiful  theater.  Trumpeters  would 
stand  on  either  side  on  balconies  to  announce  his  arrival, 
and  all  his  little  court  would  be  sitting  about  him  in  the 
boxes  and  the  stalls.  It  would  be  so  different  from 
Wagner — every  man  would  wear  a  sword,  and  the  women 
would  wear  brocade  and  long  pointed  stays,  elaborately 
stitched. 

"  The  opera  I  should  like  to  see  performed  in  this 
theater  would  be  Gluck's  '  Orfeo,'  for  instance,  or  per- 
haps '  Armide,'  for  Wagner  himself  rearranged  the 
overture,  or  did  something  to  this  opera.  However,  he 
didn't  take  the  theater  and  try  to  convert  it  to  his  pur- 
pose, as  a  lesser  man  would  have  done;  he  admired  it, 
and  a  great  man  does  not  destroy  the  beautiful  works 
of  others  in  order  to  make  way  for  his  own  works. 

"  Wagner  built  his  theater  in  the  woods,  some  one 
added  a  restaurant — maybe  it  was  himself  who  built  it, 
for,  though  he  wished  the  people  to  come  from  a  dis- 
tance to  hear  his  operas,  he  wished  them  to  hear  in 
comfort,  and  one  cannot  listen  in  comfort  without  food. 
It  is  possible  to  spend  the  day  by  the  theater,  walking 
in  the  woods,  dining  between  the  acts.  An  undulating 
country  surrounds  the  hilltop,  and  when  the  sun  strikes 
12  173 


THE  LAKE 

a  distant  town,  the  disputants  forget  their  argument,  and 
eyes  rejoice  in  the  effect  of  light.  Seeing  a  peasant 
driving  his  plow,  one  ceases  to  discuss  '  The  Valkyrie,' 
and  one  wonders  which  is  right — the  man  who  drives 
his  plow,  or  one's  self,  who  has  traveled  to  hear  '  The 
Ring/  knowing  it  to  be  the  greatest  musical  work  the 
world  has  ever  known.  I  said  to  Mr.  Ellis  a  week  ago, 
as  we  toiled  up  a  steep  part  in  the  woods — fir  trees  stood 
about  us  in  solemn  rows;  we  had  reached  the  middle  of 
the  woods — I  said :  '  But  he  wrote  these  things  because 
he  was  a  great  genius,  and  knew  nothing  of  our  pains 
and  woes — he  stood  aside,  and  would  not  know  them. 
He  wrote  about  love,  but  he  never  stooped  to  such 
triviality  as  woman's  love.  He  knew  all  about  it.  It  was 
all  in  his  brain,  but  he  never  loved.' 

"  '  You  are  mistaken,'  Mr.  Ellis  answered.  '  He  loved 
more  deeply,  and  suffered  more  than  any  other  man,  and 
there  will  be  just  time  to  tell  you  the  story  before  we  get 
back  to  the  theater.' 

"  And  as  we  retraced  our  steps,  walking  hastily,  for 
the  third  act  of  '  The  Valkyrie '  was  about  to  begin,  Mr. 
Ellis  told  me  of  the  woman  who  inspired  '  Tristan.'  I 
listened  breathless,  and  when  the  story  was  finished  I  said : 

"  '  Then  nothing  is  wanting.  For  once  Nature  filled 
up  the  cup.' 

"  Can  I  tell  you  of  my  expectation  to  hear  this  opera, 
written  out  of  the  man's  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  And  when 
the  second  act  was  over  I  said  to  Mr.  Ellis :  '  It  is  the 
man  himself.  He  wrote  like  this  not  because  he  was  less 
human  than  ourselves,  but  because  he  was  more  human, 

174 


THE   LAKE 

more  capable  of  suffering.'  Mr.  Ellis  agreed  with  me  in 
this,  saying  that,  having  experienced  more  intense  emo- 
tions than  anyone  else.  Wagner  was  able  to  distill  a 
magical  juice  out  of  them,  which  sinks  into  the  flesh, 
enters  the  very  current  of  the  blood,  transforms,  dis- 
integrates, and  produces  a  sort  of  syncope.  And  this 
is  just  it.  One  loses  all  power  of  will  listening  to  this 
music,  and  the  joy  of  it  is  an  abdication  of  self.  Yet 
it  was  written  as  an  assertion  of  self;  it  is  an  extraor- 
dinary spasm  of  self-consciousness.  I  said  just  now  that 
'  The  Ring,'  to  be  appreciated,  must  be  heard  in  the  con- 
dition that  Wagner  wished  it  to  be  heard  in  at  Bayreuth. 
But  that  is  not  so  with  '  Tristan.'  One  can  hear  it  very 
well  in  Munich — quite  as  well  as  at  Bayreuth.  It  is  a 
work  suited  to  the  city,  full  of  the -emotions  of  the  city. 
"  To  go  to  Munich  we  had  to  go  through  Nurem- 
berg, but  the  journey  through  Bavaria  does  not  bore  one 
like  the  journey  from  Cologne.  The  railway  from 
Cologne  passes  through  long  fields,  or,  I  should  say, 
stretches  of  country  where  there  are  no  hedges,  and  in 
these  fields  one  sees  peasants  cutting  corn  hundreds  of 
yards  apart.  They  seemed  very  lonely,  and  I  thought 
how  they  must  suffer  from  the  heat,  for  there  is  no  hedge 
where  they  can  lie  under.  The  only  variation  in  the 
landscape  are  the  pine  forests.  Pines  are  very  nice 
among  other  trees,  they  are  a  variety;  but  imagine  if 
you  can  the  weariness  of  seeing  mile  after  mile  of  pine 
stems,  and  overhead  a  cloudless  sky.  There  is  no  under- 
wood; nothing  grows  under  pines,  and  the  ground  is 
brown,  covered  with  spiky  things  that  the  pine  sheds.  A 

175 


THE  LAKE 

circle  of  shadow  gathers  round  the  roots  of  the  pine  at 
midday,  and  as  the  sun  sets  the  shadows  trickle  out. 
That  is  all.  A  rabbit  is  a  pretty  thing  when  one  sees 
one,  but  when  one  sees  a  thousand  one  gets  to  hate  them. 
So  it  is  with  pines.  .  .  .  Bavaria  is  quite  different  from 
the  rest  of  Germany.  The  landscape  takes  beautiful 
shapes,  and  the  shapes  of  the  ground  are  different  from 
anything  one  sees  in  England.  Trees  climb  up  the  hill- 
sides in  the  quaintest  way  possible,  and  there  are  plenty 
of  villages  at  the  foot  of  the  hills.  There  are  villages 
all  the  way  to  Munich,  and  they  seem  as  if  they  had  been 
built  many  hundred  years  ago.  The  only  thing  I  don't 
like  about  Bavaria  is  its  capital  town.  Munich  is  white 
and  ugly,  and  very  hot.  There  is  a  river,  it  is  true,  but 
not  an  interesting  river.  I  prefer  the  brook  that  flows 
through  Bayreuth;  that  brook  is  brown  and  pretty,  and 
there  are  trees  about  it.  But  there  are  only  white,  ugly 
buildings  about  the  Munich  river,  and  the  color  of  the 
water  is  unpleasant.  It  is  green,  and  I  hate  green  water. 
I  was  told  that  melted  snow  makes  green  water,  and  this 
may  or  may  not  be  true.  Everything  in  Munich  is  un- 
pleasant except  the  music.  The  picture  gallery  is  most 
unpleasant.  It  is  full  of  little  side  galleries.  One  is 
always  popping  in  and  out  to  see  something,  and  in  this 
way  one  gets  tired  and  loathes  pictures.  All  picture 
galleries  are  too  long,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that,  however  beautiful  the  pictures  may  be,  no  gallery 
ought  to  exceed  a  couple  of  miles. 

"  We  came  here  not  only  to  hear  '  Tristan,'  but  to 
hear  Mozart,  and  last  night  we  all  went  to  hear  '  The 

176 


THE   LAKE 

Marriage  of  Figaro.'  I  knew  nothing  of  Mozart  except 
his  religious  music — that  little  Mass  for  four  voices 
which  I  used  to  play  in  church  and  an  Agnus  Dei.  Do 
you  remember  them  ?  The  first  act  of  '  The  Marriage  of 
Figaro  '  is  the  most  beautiful  and  enchanting  ever  written. 
Dear  little  Cherubino!  how  pretty  he  was  behind  the 
armchair,  and  how  exhilarating  Figaro's  song  telling  him 
he  must  go  to  the  war  and  be  a  soldier ! 

"  We  met  a  young  Frenchman,  Emile  Canton,  at 
Bayreuth,  and  he  has  come  on  here  with  us.  He,  too, 
is  an  exegetist,  and  he  is  a  musician.  So  far  as  my  ex- 
perience goes,  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  the  Bible  and 
music  are  inseparable.  He  is  quite  a  young  man,  not 
more  than  thirty — a  plump,  good-looking  Frenchman, 
with  clear  eyes,  a  clear  skin,  and  a  nice  mustache.  He 
is  a  good  talker,  and  he  is  going  on  to  Switzerland  with 
us.  We  shall  see  another  professor  there,  for  Mr.  Ellis 
and  M.  Emile  Canton  are  going  to  found  a  review  to- 
gether, and  the  object  of  our  journey  is  to  try  to  persuade 
the  Swiss  professor  to  write  for  the  review.  The  con- 
versation will  be  in  French,  and  I  am  glad  of  this;  I 
want  practice,  for  I  am  determined  to  learn  French.  I 
want  to  understand  Canton's  ideas  about  Esdras  and 
Jeremiah.  It  is  extraordinary  how  real  Jeremiah  is  to 
these  people.  He  was  hardly  more  than  a  name  to  me 
two  months  ago,  and  now  I  am  beginning  to  feel  quite 
interested  in  him.  And  it  is  well  that  I  can  take  an 
interest  in  him,  for  if  I  didn't  I  am  afraid  I  should  hardly 
keep  my  wits.  Perhaps  Nature,  who  foresaw  my  destiny, 
endowed  me  with  a  capacity  for  taking  an  interest  in 

177 


THE   LAKE 


almost  anything.  Mr.  Ellis  said  that  he  never  knew  a 
more  appreciative  person.  It  is  well  that  I  am  apprecia- 
tive, for  if  I  were  not  it  would  be  impossible  for  me 
to  remain  his  secretary.  .  .  . 

"  I  had  to  put  this  letter  aside — Mr.  Ellis  called  me 
to  do  some  work  for  him — and,  coming  back  to  it,  I  am 
astonished  at  the  number  of  pages  I  have  written;  but 
it  is  too  late  to  regret  my  garrulousness.  Now,  I  wish 
you  would  come  out  here  and  join  us.  This  long  letter, 
describing  my  pleasure  in  foreign  travel,  was  written 
partly  in  the  hopes  of  tempting  you  out  of  Garranard. 
You  say  that  you  have  been  longing  for  a  holiday,  and 
that  you  require  one.  Why  not  take  a  real  holiday  and 
come  out  here?  You  will  find  Mr.  Ellis  a  very  interest- 
ing man.  You  and  he  will  not  agree  on  all  subjects,  that 
is  true,  but  I  don't  think  that  a  certain  difference  of 
opinion  makes  any  difference.  You  are  both  clever  men, 
and  clever  men  are  always  interested  in  each  other,  how- 
ever different  their  views  may  be.  Will  you  be  advised 
by  me,  dear  Father  Gogarty?  Come  out  here  and  take 
your  holiday  with  us.  One  cannot  take  a  holiday  in 
one's  own  country;  one  must  go  abroad.  I  have  told 
Mr.  Ellis  about  you,  and  he  is  very  interested,  and  will 
be  delighted  to  see  you.  You  have  never  been  out  of 
Ireland  in  your  life,  and  you  want  to  see  Italy.  Perhaps 
it  would  suit  you  as  well  to  go  straight  to  Rome.  We 
shall  be  going  there,  and  it  will  be  interesting  to  meet 
in  Rome. 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"ROSE  LEICESTER." 
178 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"  September  6,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER  : 

YOUR  letter  received  this  morning  has  been  read 
and  read  again;  but  I  remain  plunged  in  per- 
plexity, unable  to  make  up  my  mind  as  to  what 
your  object  might  be  in  sending  it  to  me.  You  do  not,  I 
take  it,  expect  me  to  write  you  a  letter  of  equal  length, 
discussing  all  the  points  you  raise  in  your  appreciations 
of  the  arts  of  Rubens  and  Wagner.  Garranard  is  a  dull, 
peaceful  place,  with  plenty  of  leisure,  but  hardly  suffi- 
cient leisure  for  such  a  lengthy  correspondence  as  your 
letter  suggests.  Even  you  feel  some  explanation  neces- 
sary, for  you  tell  me  that  your  object  in  writing  is  to 
preserve  some  memory  of  your  educational  journey 
through  Europe^  with  Mr.  Ellis.  Well,  a  letter  writer 
must  have  a  correspondent,  but  how  curiously  you  have 
chosen  yours !  I  am,  as  you  well  know,  not  in  a  position 
to  discuss  the  matters  of  which  your  letter  treats;  if  I 
were,  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  discuss  matters  with 
you,  knowing  as  I  do  that  your  knowledge  is  second 
hand,  and  only  just  acquired.  I  will  admit  that  the  music 
you  have  heard  may  have  inspired  you.  You  are  capable 

179 


THE   LAKE 

of  thinking  for  yourself  in  musical  matters ;  but  what  do 
you  know  of  the  art  of  painting?  Had  you  chosen  an- 
other correspondent  he  might  have  accepted  your  appre- 
ciations of  Ruysdael  and  Rubens  as  your  own,  for  they 
are  well  written,  and  you  seem  to  have  assimilated,  in 
a  way,  Mr.  Ellis's  opinions.  But  the  assimilation  is  more 
apparent  than  real.  Sometimes  you  have  to  fall  back 
upon  Mr.  Ellis's  very  words. 

"  Now,  why  should  you  be  at  such  pains  to  write 
me  Mr.  Ellis's  views  regarding  the  *  Ascent '  and  the 
'  Descent  of  the  Cross '  unless,  indeed,  he  dominates 
your  mind  so  thoroughly  that  you  cannot  get  him  out 
of  your  mind?  While  reading  your  letter,  I  seemed  to 
see  you  following  him  about,  listening,  hanging  on  to 
his  every  word;  and  this  much  credit  I  must  give  you: 
you  seem  to  have  reported  him  very  well  indeed.  I  must 
compliment  you  upon  your  excellent  memory;  a  short- 
hand reporter  would  not  have  represented  him  better, 
possibly  not  so  well.  You  seem  to  have  sifted  what  he 
said,  and  produced  a  fine  essence,  which,  I  confess,  I 
found  interesting. 

"  So  far  so  good.  But  what  was  your  object  in  writ- 
ing at  this  length  to  me?  Am  I  really  to  believe  that 
you  wrote  with  a  view  to  recording  your  impressions? 
If  this  be  so,  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  return  you 
your  letter.  ...  I  send  it  back  by  this  post,  and  I  engage 
to  send  back  any  other  documents  of  the  same  kind  that 
you  may  send  me,  it  being  clear  to  me  that  my  business 
is  merely  to  read,  to  approve,  and  to  return.  Were  I  to 
destroy  your  letter  there  would  be  no  record.  You 

J8o 


THE  LAKE 

would  have  wasted  your  time.  Nothing  would  have 
been  accomplished  except  the  astonishment  of  a  Con- 
naught  priest,  the  proving  to  him  that  you  are  making 
great  progress  toward  a  cultured  comprehension  of  the 
Renaissance.  But  mere  vanity  would  not  have  sufficed 
to  induce  you  to  undertake  the  labor  of  writing  at  such 
a  length.  There  is  another  motive.  Indeed,  you  admit 
as  much.  You  say  that  one  of  your  reasons  for  writing 
me  this  letter  is  to  put  before  me  the  pleasures  that 
await  me  if  I  can  be  beguiled  from  Garranard.  You 
wish  to  meet  me  in  Rome.  This  request  plunges  me 
again  into  all  my  former  perplexities.  Why  should  you 
wish  to  meet  me  in  Rome?  How  can  my  presence  add 
to  your  pleasure?  You  are  clearly  enjoying  every 
moment  of  your  life.  My  presence  could  only  prove  a 
detriment,  an  obstacle,  unless,  perhaps,  your  unselfish- 
ness is  such  that  you  are  willing  to  sacrifice  your  pleas- 
ure for  the  sake  of  my  education.  I  grant  you  that  to 
walk  behind  Mr.  Ellis  and  to  listen  to  every  remark  that 
may  fall  from  his  lips,  whether  he  be  speaking  of  Michael 
Angelo  or  Raphael  or  the  architecture  of  St.  Peter's, 
would  be  a  privilege  that  could  not  be  overestimated. 
Your  object  in  asking  me  to  meet  you  in  Rome  cannot 
be  because  you  think  that  anything  I  might  say  would 
be  of  the  slightest  interest  to  so  superior  a  person  as 
Mr.  Ellis. 

"  I  said  in  a  former  letter  that  perhaps  you  wrote 
to  me  with  a  view  to  relieving  the  tedium  of  my  life  in 
Garranard,  and  perhaps  this  is  one  of  the  reasons  that 
inspired  your  last  letter.  If  so,  I  think  it  might  have 

181 


THE   LAKE 


been  more  judiciously  worded,  for  not  the  least  odd  are 
the  passages  in  which  you  speak  with  marked  irrever- 
ence of  our  Divine  Lord  and  Redeemer.  If  a  desire  to 
please  me  formed  any  part  of  your  motive  in  writing 
this  letter,  you  would  have  avoided  saying  things  which 
you  knew  would  wound  me  in  my  most  intimate  feelings. 
But  no;  you  seem  to  go  out  of  your  way  to  say  things 
which  you  know  must  shock  me — indeed,  you  admit  as 
much.  You  refer  to  a  letter  in  which  I  reproved  the 
license  of  your  speech.  Nevertheless,  you  go  on  to  speak 
with  still  further  irreverence  of  Him  whom  you  know  I 
hold  as  Divine.  The  only  interpretation  I  can  put  upon 
your  manner  of  writing  is  that  you  are  unable  to  restrain 
yourself  from  writing  anything  that  amuses  you  for  the 
moment.  I  am  willing  to  think  that  you  are  unable  to 
restrain  your  incurable  levity  of  mind.  If  this  excuse 
were  not  available,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me,  as  a 
priest,  to  reply  to  your  letter.  The  passages  I  refer  to 
were  written,  more  or  less  unconsciously,  in  obedience 
to  an  impulse  to  be  witty,  to  be  sprightly,  but  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  if  you  had  really  wished  me  to  meet 
you  in  Rome  you  would  have  written  me  a  different 
letter.  However  this  may  be,  the  result  would  be  the 
same.  I  cannot  leave  Garranard  this  year,  however 
much  I  stand  in  need  of  a  holiday,  and  I  stand  in  great 
need  of  one.  But  I  shall  not  leave  Garranard,  cer- 
tainly not  for  a  long  while.  And  my  reasons  for  re- 
maining here  will  not  appeal  to  you;  they  are  entirely 
conscientious.  I  am  passing  through  a  difficult  period. 
There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  disguise  this  fact  from 

182 


THE   LAKE 

you,  or  from  anyone.  There  are  times  in  every  life 
when  life  seems  a  burden.  Even  my  sister  sometimes 
wearies  of  her  convent,  and  no  one  ever  had  a  more 
distinct  religious  vocation  than  she;  but,  for  all  that, 
she  would  not  leave  it.  I  must  wait  till  my  present  mood 
has  passed  before  I  go  abroad.  If  I  left  Garranard  now 
I  might  never  have  courage  to  come  back.  The  best 
way  not  to  fall  into  temptation  is  not  to  put  yourself  in 
the  way  of  it,  for  the  flesh  is  always  weak.  I  might 
grow  interested  in  what  you  call  ideas;  I  might  linger 
abroad  until  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  me  to  return, 
and  then,  what  a  scandal  would  arise  if  I  remained 
away!  Think  of  the  shame  I  should  cause  my  poor 
people !  They  would  be  pained  to  find  that  the  priest  they 
had  looked  up  to  was  unworthy  of  the  confidence  they 
had  placed  in  him.  There  are  material  reasons,  also, 
which  will  appeal  to  you.  I  have  accepted,  and  I  still 
accept,  the  money  of  these  poor  folk.  You  will  say 
that  I  can  gain  my  living  elsewhere — in  London.  You 
gained  your  living  in  London,  and  it  would  be  disgrace- 
ful if  I  could  not  succeed  where  you  succeeded;  but 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  what  I  am  thinking  now. 
I  entered  the  priesthood  of  my  own  free  will;  I  chose  a 
path,  and  I  shall  follow  it  through  life  till  the  end.  I 
have  not  ceased  to  believe  in  my  vocation.  I  am  as  con- 
vinced of  it  as  I  ever  was,  more  than  I  ever  was;  for 
were  it  not  the  most  real  thing  in  me  I  should  have  gone 
away  for  a  holiday  long  ago,  and  left  it  to  chance  whether 
I  should  ever  return  to  Garranard.  This  mood  of  dis- 
content, which  I  do  not  hesitate  to  admit,  which  has 


THE   LAKE 


its  origin,  perhaps,  in  the  great  error  of  judgment  I  com- 
mitted when  I  spoke  about  you  in  church,  will  pass  away. 
As  I  said  in  a  previous  letter,  I  have  only  got  to  bear  my 
discontent  for  a  while,  and  I  shall  come  out  at  the  other 
side  a  stronger  and  a  better  man. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY." 


184 


XI 


AFTER  posting  his  letter  he  walked  home,  con- 
gratulating himself  that  he  had  made  it  plain 
to  her  that  he  was  not  a  man  she  could  dupe. 
She  had  written  that  long  letter  in  order  to  annoy  him, 
and  the  more  he  thought  of  her  letter  the  more  plain 
did  it  seem  that  it  had  been  inspired  by  Ellis.  But  what 
could  Ellis's  reason  be  for  wishing — well,  to  make  a 
guy  of  him?  Was  he  jealous  of  him?  There  was  a 
moment's  satisfaction  in  the  thought,  but  it  could  not 
be  entertained.  Ellis  might  wish  to  make  a  guy  of  him, 
but  what  was  her  reason  ?  Revenge  ?  Revenge  was  too 
strong  a  word.  A  desire  to  punish  him?  Very  likely. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening  it  suddenly  struck  him 
that,  after  all,  she  might  have  written  that  letter  with 
a  view  of  inducing  him  to  come  to  Rome.  She  was  so 
capricious.  He  meditated  a  long  while  upon  her  character 
without  being  able- to  arrive  at  any  very  clear  estimate 
of  it.  But  all  the  while  he  was  thinking  of  her  the  sus- 
picion rankled  at  the  back  of  his  mind  that  he  had  written 
her  a  very  intemperate  letter.  "  Good  heavens ! "  he 
muttered,  getting  up  from  his  chair  suddenly,  "  if  I  am 
suspecting  her  wrongly!  No,  no  ...  the  first  reason 
she  gave  for  writing  was  that  she  wished  to  keep  a 
record  of  this  educational  journey."  All  the  old  bitter- 

185 


THE   LAKE 

ness  swam  up  again,  and  he  felt  he  had  done  well  by 
returning  her  letter.  Only  by  doing  so  could  he  prove 
that  she  was  not  going  to  make  a  fool  of  him — she  and 
the  cultured  Mr.  Ellis.  But  if  she  were  Ellis's  mistress, 
who  was  responsible?  He  turned  upon  himself  savagely, 
hating  himself,  but  he  could  not  blot  out  his  conscience ; 
and  the  conviction  strengthened  that  by  sending  her 
back  her  letter  he  had  done  no  more  than  to  repeat  the 
mistake  he  had  made  long  ago  when  he  spoke  against 
her  in  church  and  drove  her  out  of  the  country.  It  was 
he  who  had  driven  her  into  Ellis's  arms. 

He  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood  there  a  long 
while  staring  at  the  still  autumn  weather.  And  while 
standing  there  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  give  any- 
thing for  a  piece  of  blue  in  the  sky,  a  ray  of  light  on  the 
grass,  a  wind  in  the  trees.  For  these  still,  gray  days 
seemed  to  deprive  him  of  all  courage.  He  had  met  a 
villager  yesterday  driving  a  tired  horse  home  from  mar- 
ket. The  horse  tripped  and  fell  by  the  roadside,  and 
Father  Oliver  had  felt  that  he,  too,  might  fall  at  any 
moment  by  the  roadside,  so  weary  did  he  feel.  "  If  I 
could  only  make  known  my  suffering  she  would  take 
pity  on  me,  but  no  one  knows  another's  suffering." 
And  he  wandered  from  his  window  sighing.  A  moment 
after  he  stopped,  he  did  not  know  why,  in  front  of  his 
writing  table.  Perhaps  it  was  the  writing  table  that  put 
the  thought  into  his  mind  that  she  might  like  to  read 
a  description  of  an  Irish  autumn.  He  wanted  a  pretext 
for  a  letter:  the  season  was  one.  He  might  leave  out 
mention  of  the  angry  letter  he  had  sent  her. 

186 


THE   LAKE 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 

"October  10,  19 — . 

"  You  know  the  wind  is  hardly  ever  at  rest  about 
the  hilltop  on  which  my  house  stands.  Even  in  summer 
the  wind  sighs,  a  long,  gentle  little  sigh,  sometimes  not 
unpleasant  to  hear.  You  used  to  speak  of  an  ^Eolian 
harp,  and  say  that  I  should  place  one  on  my  window 
sill.  A  doleful  instrument  it  must  be — a  loud  wailing 
sound  in  winter  time,  and  in  the  summer  a  little  tinkle. 
But  in  these  autumn  days  an  ^Eolian  harp  would  be 
mute.  There  is  not  wind  enough  to-day  on  the  hillside 
to  cause  the  faintest  vibration.  Yesterday  I  went  for  a 
long  walk  in  the  woods,  and  I  can  find  no  words  that 
would  convey  an  idea  of  the  stillness.  It  is  easy  to 
speak  of  a  tomb,  but  it  was  that.  After  all,  the  dead 
are  dead.  Somnambulism  is  more  mysterious  than  death, 
and  the  season  seemed  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice, will-less,  like  a  sleepwalker.  Now  and  then  the 
sound  of  a  falling  leaf  caught  my  ear,  and  I  shall  always 
remember  how  a  crow,  flying  high  overhead  toward  the 
mountains,  uttered  an  ominous  '  caw ' ;  another  crow 
answered,  and  there  was  silence  again.  The  branches 
dropped,  and  the  leaves  hung  out  at  the  end  of  long 
stems.  One  could  not  help  pitying  the  trees,  though 
one  knew  one's  pity  was  vain. 

"  As  I  wandered  in  Derrinrush,  I  came  suddenly 
upon  some  blood-red  beech  trees,  and  the  hollow  was 
full  of  blood-red  leaves.  You  have  been  to  Derrinrush: 

187 


THE   LAKE 

you  know  how  mystic  and  melancholy  the  wood  is,  full 
of  hazels  and  Druid  stones.  After  wandering  a  long 
while  I  turned  into  a  path.  It  led  me  to  a  rough  western 
shore,  and  in  front  of  me  stood  a  great  Scotch  fir.  The 
trunk  had  divided,  and  the  two  crowns  showed  against 
the  leaden  sky.  It  had  two  birch  trees  on  either  side, 
and  their  graceful  stems  and  faint  foliage,  pale  like  gold, 
made  me  think  of  dancers  with  sequins  in  their  hair  and 
sleeves.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  silence  in  the 
wood — silence,  and  leaves  ready  to  fall.  I  had  not  spoken 
to  anyone  for  a  fortnight — I  mean  I  had  no  conversation 
with  anyone — and  my  loneliness  helped  me  to  perceive 
the  loneliness  of  the  wood,  and  the  absence  of  birds 
made  me  feel  it.  The  lake  is  never  without  gulls,  but 
I  didn't  see  one  yesterday.  '  The  swallows  are  gone,' 
I  said;  '  the  wild  geese  will  soon  be  here,'  and  I  remem- 
bered their  doleful  cry  as  I  scrambled  under  some  black- 
thorn bushes,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  wood  into  the  fields. 
Though  I  knew  the  field  I  was  in  well,  I  didn't  remember 
the  young  sycamores  growing  in  one  corner  of  it.  Yes- 
terday I  could  not  but  notice  them,  for  they  seemed  to 
be  like  children  dying  of  consumption  in  a  hospital  ward 
— girls  of  twelve  or  thirteen.  You  will  think  the  com- 
parison far-fetched  and  unhealthy,  one  that  could  only 
come  out  of  a  morbidly  excited  imagination.  Well,  I 
cannot  help  that;  like  you,  I  must  write  as.  I  feel. 

"  Suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  an  ax,  and  I  can 
find  no  words  to  tell  you  how  impressive  its  sound  was 
In  the  still  autumn  day.  '  How  soon  will  the  tree  fall?' 
I  thought;  and,  desirous  of  seeing  it  fall,  I  walked  on, 

188 


THE   LAKE 

guided  by  the  sound,  till  I  saw  at  the  end  of  the  glade 
— whom  do  you  think?  Do  you  remember  an  old  man 
called  Patsy  Murphy  ?  He  had  once  been  a  very  good  car- 
penter, and  had  made  and  saved  money.  He  is  now 
ninety-five,  and  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I 
saw  him  trying  to  cut  down  a  larch.  What  his  object 
could  be  in  felling  the  tree  I  could  not  tell,  and,  feeling 
some  curiosity,  I  walked  forward.  He  continued  to  chip 
away  pieces  of  the  bark  till  his  strength  failed  him,  and 
he  had  to  sit  down  to  rest.  Seeing  me,  he  took  off  his 
hat — you  know  the  tall  hat  he  wears — a  hat  given  him 
twenty  or  thirty  years  ago — by  whom?  Patsy  Murphy's 
mind  is  beginning  to  wander.  He  tells  stories  as  long 
as  you  will  listen  to  him,  and  it  appears  now  that  his 
daughter-in-law  turned  him  out  of  his  house — the  house 
he  had  built  himself,  and  that  he  had  lived  in  for  half  a 
century.  This,  however,  is  not  the  greatest  wrong  she 
had  done  him.  He  could  forgive  her  this  wrong,  but 
he  cannot  forgive  her  stealing  of  his  sword.  '  There 
never  was  a  Murphy/  he  said,  *  who  hadn't  a  sword.' 
Whether  this  sword  is  an  imagination  of  Patsy's  fading 
brain  I  cannot  say;  perhaps  he  had  some  old  sword  and 
lost  it.  The  tale"  he  tells  to-day  differs  wholly  from  the 
tale  he  told  yesterday  and  the  tale  he  will  tell  to-morrow. 
He  told  me  once  he  had  been  obliged  to  give  up  all  his 
savings  to  his  son.  I  went  to  interview  the  son,  deter- 
mined to  sift  the  matter  to  the  bottom,  and  discovered 
that  Patsy  had  still  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  in 
the  bank.  Ten  pounds  had  been  taken  out  for — I  needn't 
trouble  you  with  further  details.  Sufficient  has  been  said 
13  189 


THE  LAKE 

to  enable  you  to  understand  how  affecting  it  was  to  meet 
this  old  man  in  the  red  and  yellow  woods,  at  the  end 
of  a  breathless  autumn  day,  trying  to  fell  a  young  larch. 
He  talked  so  rapidly,  and  one  story  flowed  so  easily 
into  another,  that  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  get 
in  a  word.  At  last  I  was  able  to  get  out  of  him  that  the 
colonel  had  given  him  leave  to  build  a  house  on  the 
shore,  where  he  would  be  out  of  everybody's  way.  '  All 
my  old  friends  are  gone,  the  colonel's  father  and  his 
mother.  God  be  merciful  to  her!  she  was  a  good  woman, 
the  very  best.  And  all  I  want  now  is  time  to  think  of 
them  that's  gone.  .  .  .  Didn't  I  know  the  colonel's 
grandfather  and  his  grandmother?  They're  all  buried 
in  the  cemetery  yonder  in  Kiltoon,  and  on  a  fine  evenin' 
I  do  like  to  be  sittin'  on  a  stone  by  the  lake,  thinkin'  of 
them  all.' 

"  It  was  at  once  touching  and  impressive  to  see  this 
old  man,  weak  as  a  child,  the  only  trembling  thing  in  a 
moveless  day,  telling  these  wanderings  of  an  insane  brain. 
You  will  say,  But  what  matter?  They  may  not  be  true 
in  fact,  but  they  are  his^truth,  they  are  himself,  they  are 
his  age.  His  ninety-five  years  are  represented  in  his 
confused  talk,  half  recollection,  half  complaints  about  the 
present.  He  knew  my  father  and  mother,  too,  and,  peer- 
ing into  my  face,  he  caught  sight  of  a  gray  hair,  and  I 
heard  him  mutter : 

" '  Ah !  they  grow  gray  quicker  now  than  they 
used  to.' 

"  As  I  walked  home  in  the  darkening  light,  I  remem- 
bered that  I  had  only  to  live  a  few  years  to  become  as 

190 


THE   LAKE 

frail  as  Patsy  Murphy,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  live  till  ninety-five,  losing  my  teeth  one  by  one, 
and  my  wits." 

"OCTOBER  12,  19 — . 

"  I  was  interrupted  in  my  description  of  the  melan- 
choly season,  and  I  don't  know  how  I  should  have 
finished  that  letter  if  I  had  not  been  interrupted.  The 
truth  is  that  the  season  was  but  a  pretext.  I  did  not 
dare  to  write  asking  you  to  forgive  me  for  having  re- 
turned your  letter.  I  do  not  do  so  now.  I  will  merely 
say  that  I  returned  the  letter  because  it  annoyed  me, 
and,  shameful  as  the  admission  may  be,  I  admit  that  I 
returned  it  because  I  wished  to  annoy  you.  I  said  to 
myself.  '  If  this  be  so — if,  in  return  for  kind  thought — 
Why  shouldn't  she  suffer?  I  suffer.'  One  isn't — one 
cannot  be — held  responsible  for  every  base  thought  that 
enters  the  mind.  How  long  the  mind  shall  entertain  a 
thought  before  responsibility  is  incurred  I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  say.  One's  mood  changes,  and  we  become  dif- 
ferent beings.  A  storm  gathers,  rages  for  a  while,  and 
disperses;  but  the  traces  of  the  storm  remain  after  the 
storm  has  passed  "away.  I  am  thinking  now  that  per- 
haps, after  all,  you  were  quite  sincere  when  you  asked 
me  to  leave  Garranard  and  take  my  holiday  in  Rome. 
In  my  present  mood  I  see  there  is  no  shadow  of  excuse 
for  attributing  base  designs  to  you.  The  baseness  of 
which  for  a  moment  I  deemed  you  capable  was  the 
creation  of  my  own  soul.  I  don't  mean  that  my  mind,  my 
soul,  is  always  base.  At  times  we  are  all  more  or  less 

191 


THE   LAKE 

unworthy — mystery,  mystery,  everywhere  we  look.  Our 
tempers,  are  they  part  of  our  real  selves?  I  have  been 
pondering  this  question  lately.  Which  self  is  the  true 
self,  now — the  peaceful  or  the  choleric?  Why  shouldn't 
you  wish  to  see  me  ?  There  is  no  reason,  and  I  believe  in 
your  good  will  toward  me,  and  thank  you  for  it.  I 
wonder  if  I  may  lay  claim  to  some  further  indulgence? 
My  wretched  temper  aggravated  my  disappointment. 
You  had  suggested  to  me  I  should  write  a  book  about  the 
history  of  the  lake  and  its  castles,  and  I  have  been 
trying  to  write  it;  but  I  cannot,  either  because  I  am 
without  talent  for  literary  composition,  or  from  some 
other  cause.  I  have  tried  and  tried  again ;  I  have  spent 
long  evenings  walking  up  and  down  the  room  trying  to 
arrange  my  thoughts,  but  to  no  purpose.  And  my  failure 
to  write  no  doubt  contributed  to  produce  a  nervous  de- 
pression. Moreover,  it  seems  to  me  that,  without  leaving 
myself  open  to  an  accusation  of  wishing  to  defend  or 
to  excuse  my  unpardonable  rudeness  in  sending  back 
your  letter,  I  may  point  out  that  your — I  hardly  know 
what  word  to  use ;  *  irrelevancy '  does  not  express  my 
meaning ;  '  inconsequences '  is  nearer,  yet  it  isn't  the 
word  I  want — well,  your  inconsequences  perplex  and  dis- 
tract one's  thoughts.  If  you  will  look  through  the  letter 
you  sent  me  last  you  will  find  that  you  have  written  many 
things  that  might  annoy  a  man  living  in  the  conditions 
in  which  I  live.  You  follow  the  current  of  your  mood, 
but  the  transitions  you  omit,  and  the  reader  is  left 
hopelessly  conjecturing. 

"  I  have  been  rereading  your  letters  and  thinking 
192 


THE  LAKE 

over  the  letter  which  I  returned,  and  I  have  compared 
it  with  the  others,  trying  to  discover  the  real  Rose 
Leicester,  but  without  much  success.  I  cannot  discover 
any  analogy  between  the  woman  who  used  to  decorate 
my  altar  and  sing  Ave  Marias  in  my  church  and  the 
woman  who  takes  an  interest  in  Mr.  Ellis's  adventures 
in  biblical  criticism,  and  to  the  extent  that  she  cannot 
keep  herself  from  writing  to  me  about  Jeremiah,  Hosea, 
and  Amos.  Now,  if  I  accept  this  pedantic  woman  as  the 
real  Rose  Leicester,  how  am  I  to  coordinate  her  tastes 
with  those  of  the  woman  who  writes  irreverent  descrip- 
tions of  Rubens's  '  Descent '  and  '  Ascent  of  the  Cross,' 
and  to  whom  the  world  seems  but  a  toy  shop  and  her- 
self a  child  running  from  one  plaything  to  another? 
Everything  in  you  seems  a  discrepancy.  The  men  you 
like  are  as  dissimilar  as  they  could  well  be.  My  thought 
goes  back  to  the  father  of  your  child.  I  do  not  know 
if  he  were  a  soldier  from  the  barracks  or  a  shepherd  from 
the  hills,  but,  whosoever  he  was,  he  certainly  differed 
from  the  man  whose  secretary  you  now  are.  Yet  I  sup- 
pose you  liked  him.  Your  liking  for  Mr.  Ellis  is  ap- 
parent in  every  sentence  you  write.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  writing,  and  after  thinking  for  a  little 
while  he  laid  down  the  pen  and  walked  about  the  room. 
He  had  come  to  the  real  point  of  his  letter,  and  having 
come  to  it  he  found  himself  without  words  to  express 
himself.  What  was  in  his  mind  was  to  ask  her  if  she 
were  merely  Ellis's  secretary,  if  there  was  nothing  be- 
tween them  but  her  interest  in  his  books.  She  had  said 

193 


THE  LAKE 

that  her  life  would  be  intolerable  if  she  hadn't  acquired 
an  interest  in  the  Bible  and  in  biblical  criticism,  and  he 
could  understand  that.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  ask  her  if 
she  loved  Mr.  Ellis,  if  there  was  any  chance  of  her 
marrying  him;  if  he  were  to  ask  such  a  question  she 
might  never  write  to  him  again. 

"  I  laid  aside  my  pen,  fearing  I  should  ask  what  are 
your  relations  with  Mr.  Ellis.  I  have  tried  to  keep  myself 
from  putting  this  question  to  you,  but  the  torture  of 
doubt  overcomes  me,  and  even  if  you  should  never  write 
to  me  again  I  must  ask  it.  Remember  that  I  am  respon- 
sible to  God  for  the  life  you  lead.  Had  it  not  been  for 
me  you  would  never  have  known  Ellis.  You  must  grant 
to  every  man  his  point  of  view,  and  as  a  Christian  I 
cannot  put  my  responsibility  out  of  mind.  If  you  lose 
your  soul,  I  am  responsible  for  it.  Should  you  write 
that  your  relations  with  Mr.  Ellis  are  not  innocent,  I  shall 
not  be  relieved  of  my  responsibility,  but  it  will  be  a  relief 
to  me  to  know  the  truth.  I  shall  pray  for  you,  and  you 
will  repent  your  sins  if  you  are  living  in  sin.  Forgive 
me  the  question  I  am  putting  to  you.  I  have  no  right  to 
do  so  whatever.  Whatever  right  I  had  over  you  when 
you  were  in  my  parish  has  passed  from  me.  I  exceeded 
that  right,  but  that  is  the  old  story.  Maybe  I  am  repeat- 
ing my  very  fault  again.  It  is  not  unlikely,  for  what  do 
we  do  all  through  our  lives  but  to  repeat  ourselves? 
You  have  forgiven  me,  and,  having  forgiven  me  once, 
maybe  you  will  forgive  me  again.  However  this  may  be, 
it  will  be,  my  hope. 

"  Do  not  delay  writing,  for  every  day  will  be  a  little 
194 


THE   LAKE 

agony  till  I  hear  from  you.  At  the  end  of  an  autumn 
day,  when  the  dusk  is  sinking  into  the  room,  one  lacks 
courage  to  live.  Religion  seems  to  desert  one,  and  I  am 
thinking  of  the  leaves  falling,  falling,  in  Derrinrush.  All 
night  long  they  will  be  falling,  like  my  hopes.  Forgive 
me  this  long  and  miserable  letter.  But  if  I  didn't  write 
it,  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  through  the  evening.  Write 
to  me.  A  letter  from  Italy  will  cheer  me  and  help  me  to 
live.  All  my  letters  are  not  like  this  one.  Not  very  long 
ago  I  wrote  to  you  about  a  hermit  who  never  wearied 
of  life,  though  he  lived  upon  an  island  in  this  lake.  Did 
you  receive  that  letter?  I  wonder.  Maybe  it  is  still 
following  you  about.  It  was  a  pleasant  letter,  and  I 
should  be  sorry  if  you  did  not  get  it.  Write  to  me  about 
Italy — about  sunshine,  about  statues  and  pictures. 
"  Ever  sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY." 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"  October  20,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER  : 

"  I  wrote  last  week  apologizing  for  troubling  you 
again  with  a  letter,  pleading  that  the  melancholy  of 
autumn  and  the  falling  of  the  leaf  forced  me  to  write  to 
some  one.  I  wrote  asking  for  a  letter,  saying  that  one 
about  Italian  sunshine  would  help  me  to  live.  I  am 
afraid  my  letter  must  have  seemed  exaggerated.  One 

195 


THE   LAKE 

writes  out  of  a  mood.  The  mood  passes,  but  when  it  is 
with  one,  one  is  the  victim  of  it.  And  this  letter  is  written 
to  say  I  have  recovered  somewhat  from  my  depression  of 
spirits.  ...  I  have  found  consolation  in  a  book,  and  I 
feel  that  I  must  send  it  to  you,  for  even  you  may  one  day 
feel  depressed  and  lonely.  Did  you  ever  read  '  The  Imita- 
tion of  Christ '  ?  There  is  no  book  more  soothing  to  the 
spirit  than  it ;  and  on  the  very  first  page  I  found  some  lines 
which  apply  marvelously  well  to  your  case : 

" '  If  thou  didst  know  the  whole  Bible  outwardly,  and 
the  sayings  of  all  the  philosophers,  what  would  it  all  profit 
thee  without  charity  and  the  grace  of  God  ? ' 

"  Over  the  page  the  saint  says :  '  Every  man  naturally 
desireth  to  know ;  but  what  doth  knowledge  avail  without 
the  fear  of  God?' 

"  *  Truly,  a  lowly  rustic  that  serveth  God  is  better 
than  a  proud  philosopher  who  pondereth  the  course  of 
the  stars  and  neglecteth  himself.' 

"  '  He  that  knoweth  himself  becometh  vile  to  himself, 
and  taketh  no  delight  in  the  praises  of  men.' 

" '  If  I  knew  all  things  that  are  in  the  world,  and 
were  not  in  charity,  what  would  it  profit  me  in  the  sight 
of  God,  who  will  judge  according  to  deeds?' 

" '  Cease  from  overweening  desire  of  knowledge,  be- 
cause many  distractions  are  found  there,  and  much 
delusion.' 

"  I  might  go  on  quoting  till  I  reached  the  end,  for 
on  every  page  I  note  something  that  I  would  have  you 
read.  But  why  quote  when  I  can  send  you  the  book? 
You  have  lost  interest  in  the  sentimental  side  of  religion, 

196 


THE   LAKE 

but  your  loss  is  only  momentary.  You  will  never  find 
anyone  who  will  understand  you  better  than  this  book. 
You  are  engaged  now  in  the  vain  pursuit  of  knowledge, 
but  some  day,  when  you  are  weary  of  knowledge,  you  will 
turn  to  it.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  read  it  now,  but  promise 
me  that  you  will  keep  it.  It  will  be  a  great  consolation 
to  me  to  know  that  it  is  by  you. 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 

"November  3,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER  : 

"  I  sent  you — I  think  it  must  be  a  fortnight  ago— a 
copy  of  '  The  Imitation  of  Christ.'  The  copy  I  sent  is 
one  of  the  original  Elizabethan  edition,  a  somewhat  rare 
book  and  difficult  to  obtain.  I  sent  you  this  copy  in  order 
to  make  sure  that  you  would  keep  it;  the  English  is 
better  than  the  English  of  our  modern  translations.  You 
must  not  think  that  I  feel  hurt  because  you  did  not  write 
to  thank  me  at  once  for  having  sent  you  the  book.  My 
reason  for  writing  is  merely  because  I  should  like  to 
know  if  it  reached  you.  If  you  have  not  received  it,  I 
think  it  would  be  better  to  make  inquiries  at  once  in  the 
post.  It  would  be  a  pity  that  a  copy  of  the  original  Eliza- 
bethan edition  should  be  lost.  Just  write  a  little  short 
note  saying  that  you  have  received  it. 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY,  P.P." 
197 


XII 


THE  "  Imitation  "  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  he 
wondered    if    the    spiritual    impulse    it    had 
awakened  in  him  had  been  exhausted,  or  if 
the  continual  splashing  of  the  rain  on  the  pane  had  got 
upon  his  nerves. 

"  But  it  isn't  raining  in  Italy,"  he  said,  getting  up 
from  his  chair ;  "  and  I  am  weary  of  the  rain,  of  myself — 
I  am  weary  of  everything."  And  going  to  the  window 
he  tried  to  take  an  interest  in  the  weather,  asking  himself 
if  it  would  clear  up  about  three  o'clock.  It  generally 
cleared  late  in  the  afternoon  for  some  short  while,  and 
he  would  be  able  to  go  out  for  half  an  hour.  But  where 
should  he  go?  He  foresaw  his  walk  from  end  to  end 
before  he  began  it :  the  descent  of  the  hill,  the  cart  track 
and  the  old  ruts  full  of  water,  the  dead  reeds  on  the  shore 
soaking,  the  dripping  trees.  He  knew  that  about  three 
o'clock  the  clouds  would  lift,  the  sunset  would  begin  in 
the  gaps  in  the  mountains.  Perhaps  he  might  get  as  far 
as  the  little  fields  between  Derrinrush  and  the  planta- 
tions. From  the  hillside  he  could  watch  the  sunset ;  when 
the  sunset  was  over  he  could  return  home.  And  then 
a  long  evening  would  lie  before  him.  Terrible!  And 
he  began  to  feel  that  he  must  have  an  occupation — his 
book!  To  write  the  story  of  the  island  castles  would 

198 


THE   LAKE 

pass  the  time,  and  wondering  how  he  might  write  them, 
whether  from  oral  tradition  or  from  the  books  and  manu- 
scripts which  he  might  find  in  national  libraries,  he  went 
out  about  three  o'clock  and  wandered  down  the  old  cart 
track,  getting  his  feet  very  wet.  When  he  came  to  the 
pine  wood  he  went  to  the  water's  edge,  and  stood  looking 
across  the  lake,  wondering  if  he  should  go  out  to  Castle 
Island  in  a  boat — there  was  no  boat,  but  he  might  borrow 
one  somewhere — and  examine  what  remained  of  the 
castle.  But  he  knew  every  heap  of  old  stones,  every 
brown  bush,  and  the  thick  ivy  that  twined  round  the  last 
corner  wall.  Castle  Hag  had  an  interest  Castle  Island 
had  not.  The  cormorants  roosted  there;  and  they  must 
be  hungry,  for  the  lake  had  been  too  windy  for  fishing 
this  long  while.  A  great  gust  whirled  past,  and  he  stood 
watching  the  clouds  drifting  overhead — the  same  thick 
vapor  drifting  and  going  out.  For  nearly  a  month  he 
had  waited  in  vain  for  a  space  of  blue  sky,  and  it  had 
begun  to  seem  as  if  the  sky  would  never  be  blue  again. 
A  great  sadness  fell  upon  him,  a  sick  longing  for  a 
change ;  but  if  he  yielded  to  this  longing  he  would  never 
return  to  Garranard.  There  seemed  to  be  no  way  out 
of  the  difficulty — at  least,  he  could  see  none. 

A  last  ray  lit  up  a  distant  hillside,  his  shadow 
floated  on  the  wet  sand ;  then  the  evening  darkened 
rapidly,  and  he  walked  in  a  vague  diffused  light,  inex- 
pressibly sad. 

Father  Moran  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  end  of  an 
old  cart  track,  where  the  hawthorns  grew  out  of  a 
tumbled  wall. 

199 


THE  LAKE 

"  I've  come  to  see  you,  Gogarty ;  I  don't  know  if  I'm 
welcome." 

"  It's  joking  you  are.  You'll  stay  and  have  some 
supper  with  me  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  will,  if  you  give  me  some  drink,  for  it's 
drink  that  I'm  after,  and  not  eating.  I'd  better  get  the 
truth  out  at  once  and  have  done  with  it.  I've  felt  the 
craving  coming  on  me  for  the  last  few  days — you  know 
what  I  mean — and  now  it's  got  me  by  the  throat.  I  must 
have  drink.  Come  along,  Gogarty,  and  give  me  some, 
and  then  I'll  say  good-by  to  you  forever." 

"Now  what  are  you  saying?" 

"  Don't  stand  arguing  with  me.  .  .  .  You  can't  un- 
derstand, Gogarty — no  one  can;  I  can't  myself.  But  it 
doesn't  matter  what  anyone  understands — I'm  done  for." 

"  We'll  have  a  bit  of  supper  together.  ...  It  will 
pass  from  you." 

"  Ah,  you  little  know ;  "  and  the  priests  walked  up  the 
windy  hill  in  silence. 

"  Gogarty,  there's  no  use  talking;  I'm  done  for.  Let 
me  go." 

"  Come  in,  will  you  ?  "  and  he  took  him  by  the  arm. 
"  Come  in.  I'm  a  bigger  man  than  you,  Moran ; 
come  in ! " 

"  I'm  done  for,"  Father  Moran  said  again. 

Father  Oliver  made  a  sign  of  silence,  and  when  they 
were  in  the  parlor,  and  the  door  shut  behind  them,  he 
said: 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  and  Catherine  within  a 
step  of  you." 

200 


THE   LAKE 

"  I've  told  you,  Gogarty,  I'm  done  for,  and  I've  just 
come  here  to  bid  you  good-by;  but  before  we  part  I'd 
like  to  hear  you  say  that  I  haven't  been  wanting  in  my 
duties — that  in  all  the  rest,  as  far  as  you  know,  I've  been 
as  good  a  man  as  another." 

"  In  all  but  one  thing  I  know  no  better  man,  and  I'll 
not  hear  that  there's  no  hope." 

"  Better  waste  no  time  talking.  Just  let  me  hear  you 
say  again  that  I've  been  a  good  man  in  everything  but 
one  thing." 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  "  and  the  priests  grasped  hands. 

And  Catherine  came  into  the  room  to  ask  if  Father 
Moran  was  stopping  to  supper.  Father  Oliver  answered 
hurriedly :  "  Yes,  yes,  he's  staying.  Bring  in  supper  as 
soon  as  you  can ; "  and  she  went  away,  to  come  back 
soon  after  with  the  cloth.  And  while  she  laid  it  the  priests 
sat  looking  at  each  other,  not  daring  to  speak,  hoping  that 
Catherine  did  not  suspect  from  their  silence  and  manner 
that  anything  was  wrong.  She  seemed  to  be  a  long  while 
laying  the  cloth  and  bringing  in  the  food ;  it  seemed  to 
them  as  if  she  was  delaying  on  purpose.  At  last  the  door 
was  closed,  and  they  were  alone. 

"  Now,  Moran,  sit  down  and  eat  a  bit,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  I  can't  eat  anything.  Give  me  some  whisky ;  that 
is  what  I  want.  Give  me  some  whisky,  and  I  will  go 
away  and  you'll  never  see  me  again.  Just  a  glass  to  keep 
me  going,  and  I  will  go  straight  out  of  your  parish,  so 
that  none  of  the  disgrace  will  fall  upon  you;  or — what 
do  you  think  ?  You  could  put  me  up  here.  No  one  need 
know  I'm  here.  All  I  want  are  a  few  bottles  of  whisky." 

201 


THE  LAKE 

"  You  mean  that  I  should  put  you  up  here  and  let 
you  get  drunk?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  well  enough.  I'm  like  that. 
And  it's  well  for  you  who  don't  want  whisky.  But  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  whisky  I  should  have  been  in  a  mad- 
house long  ago.  Now,  just  tell  me  if  you'll  give  me 
drink.  If  you  will,  I'll  stay  and  talk  with  you,  for  I 
know  you're  lonely;  if  not,  I'll  just  be  off  with  myself." 

"  Moran,  you'll  be  better  when  you've  had  something 
to  eat.  It  will  pass  from  you.  I  will  give  you  a  glass 
of  beer." 

"  A  glass  of  beer !  Ah,  if  I  could  tell  you  the  truth ! 
We've  all  our  troubles,  Gogarty — trouble  that  none 
knows  but  God.  I  haven't  been  watching  you — I've  been 
too  tormented  about  myself  to  think  much  of  anyone 
else — but  now  and  then  I've  caught  sight  of  a  thought 
passing  across  your  mind.  We  all  suffer,  you  like 
another,  and  when  the  ache  becomes  too  great  to  be 
borne  we  drink.  Whisky  is  the  remedy;  there's  none 
better.  We  drink  and  forget,  and  that  is  the  great  thing. 
There  are  times,  Gogarty,  when  one  doesn't  want  to 
think,  when  one's  afraid,  aren't  there  ? — when  one  wants 
to  forget  that  one's  alive.  You've  had  that  feeling, 
Gogarty.  We  all  have  it.  And  now  I  must  be  off.  I 
must  forget  everything.  I  want  to  drink  and  to  feel  the 
miles  passing  under  my  feet." 

And  on  that  he  got  up  from  the  fire. 

"  Come,  Moran,  I  won't  hear  you  speak  like  that." 

"  Let  me  go.  It's  no  use ;  I'm  done  for ;  "  and  Father 
Oliver  saw  his  eyes  light  up. 

202 


THE   LAKE 

"  I'll  not  keep  you  against  your  will,  but  I'll  go  a 
piece  of  the  road  with  you." 

"  I'd  sooner  you  didn't  come,  Gogarty." 

Without  answering,  Father  Oliver  caught  up  his  hat 
and  followed  Father  Moran  out  of  the  house.  They 
walked  without  speaking,  and  when  they  got  to  the  gate 
Father  Oliver  began  to  wonder  which  way  his  unhappy 
curate  would  choose  for  escape.  "  Now,  why  does  he 
take  the  southern  road  ? "  And  a  moment  after  he 
guessed  that  Moran  was  making  for  Michael  Garvey's 
public  house,  "  and  after  drinking  there,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  he'll  go  on  to  Tinnick."  After  a  couple  of  miles, 
however,  Moran  turned  into  a  byroad  leading  through 
the  mountains,  and  they  walked  on  without  saying  a 
word. 

And  they  walked  mile  after  mile  through  the  worn 
mountain  road. 

"  You've  come  far  enough,  Gogarty ;  go  back. 
Regan's  public  house  is  outside  of  your  parish." 

"If  it's  outside  my  parish,  it's  only  the  other  side  of 
the  boundary;  and  you  said,  Moran,  that  you  wouldn't 
touch  whisky  till  to-nlorrow  morning." 

The  priests  walked  on  again,  and  Father  Oliver  fell 
to  thinking  now  what  might  be  the  end  of  this  adventure. 
He  could  see  there  was  no  hope  of  persuading  Father 
Moran  from  the  bottle  of  whisky. 

"  What  time  do  you  be  making  it,  Gogarty  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  ten  o'clock  yet." 

"  Then  I'll  walk  up  and  down  till  the  stroke  of 
twelve.  .  .  .  I'll  keep  my  promise  to  you." 

203 


THE   LAKE 

"  But  they'll  all  be  in  bed  by  twelve.  What  will  you 
do  then?" 

Father  Moran  didn't  give  Father  Gogarty  an  answer, 
but  started  off  again,  and  this  time  he  was  walking  very 
fast;  and  when  they  got  as  far  as  Regan's  public  house 
Father  Oliver  took  his  friend  by  the  arm,  reminding  him 
again  of  his  promise. 

"  You  promised  not  to  disgrace  the  parish." 

"  I  said  that  .  .  .  Well,  if  it's  walking  your  heart  is 
set  upon,  you  shall  have  your  bellyful  of  it." 

And  he  was  off  again  like  a  man  walking  for  a  wager. 
But  Father  Oliver,  who  wouldn't  be  outwalked,  kept 
pace  with  him,  and  they  went  striding  along,  walking 
without  speaking. 

Full  of  ruts  and  broken  stones,  the  road  straggled 
through  the  hills,  and  Father  Oliver  wondered  what 
would  happen  when  they  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  For  the 
sea  lay  beyond  the  hill.  The  road  bent  round  a  shoulder 
of  the  hill,  and  when  Father  Oliver  saw  the  long  road  be- 
fore him  his  heart  began  to  fail  him,  and  a  cry  of  despair 
rose  to  his  lips;  but  at  that  moment  Moran  stopped. 

"  You've  saved  me,  Gogarty." 

He  did  not  notice  that  Father  Gogarty  was  breathless, 
almost  fainting,  and  he  began  talking  hurriedly,  telling 
Father  Oliver  how  he  had  committed  himself  to  the  reso- 
lution of  breaking  into  a  run  as  soon  as  they  got  to  the 
top  of  the  hill. 

"  My  throat  was  on  fire  then,  but  now  all  the  fire  is 
out  of  it;  your  prayer  has  been  answered.  But  what's 
the  matter,  Gogarty?  You're  not  speaking." 

204 


THE  LAKE 

"  What  you  say  is  wonderful  indeed,  Moran,  for  I 
was  praying  for  you.  I  prayed  as  long  as  I  had  breath ; 
one  can't  pray,  without  breath,  or  speak.  We'll  talk  of 
this  presently." 

The  priests  turned  back,  walking  very  slowly. 

"  I  feel  no  more  wish  to  drink  whisky  than  I  do  to 
drink  bog  water.  But  I'm  a  bit  hot,  and  I  think  I'd 
like  a  drink,  and  a  drink  of  water  will  do  me  first-rate. 
Now,  look  here,  Gogarty,  a  miracle  has  happened,  and 
we  should  thank  God  for  it.  Shall  we  kneel  down  ?  " 

The  road  was  very  wet,  and  they  thought  it  would 
do  as  well  if  they  leant  over  the  little  wall  and  said  some 
prayers  together. 

"  I've  conquered  the  devil ;  I  know  it.  But  I've  been 
through  a  terrible  time,  Gogarty.  It's  all  lifted  from  me 
now.  I'm  sorry  I've  brought  you  out  for  such  a  walk 
as  this." 

"  Never  mind  the  walk,  Moran,  so  long  as  the  tempta- 
tion has  passed  from  you — that's  the  principal  thing." 

To  speak  of  ordinary  things  was  impossible,  for  they 
believed  in  the  miracle,  and,  thanking  God  for  this  act 
of  grace,  they  walked  on  until  they  reached  Father 
Oliver's  gate. 

"  I  believe  you're  right,  Moran ;  I  believe  that  a 
miracle  has  happened.  You'll  go  home  straight,  won't 
you?" 

Father  Moran  grasped  Father  Oliver's  hand. 

"  Indeed  I  will." 

And  Father  Oliver  stood  by  his  gate  looking  down 
the  road,  and  he  didn't  open  it  and  go  through  until 
14  205 


THE   LAKE 


Father  Moran  had  passed  out  of  sight.  Pushing  it  open 
he  walked  up  the  gravel  path,  seeing  the  lamp  burning 
in  his  study  window,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  he  said 
to  himself  that  a  miracle  had  happened ;  a  miracle  Moran 
had  called  it,  and  verily  it  seemed  like  one.  But  would 
the  miracle  endure?  Was  Father  Moran  cured  of  his 
disease?  Father  Oliver  thought  how  his  curate  had 
gripped  his  hand,  feeling  sure  that  that  grip  meant  a 
great  deal ;  it  meant,  "  You've  done  me  a  great  service, 
one  I  can  never  sufficiently  repay,"  and  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  think  that  Moran  would  always  think  well  of  him. 

Whatever  happened,  Moran  would  always  think  well 
of  him.  He  would  think  well  of  him  because  he  knew 
him  better  than  others.  And  now  he  would  go  to  bed 
and  think  of  something  else.  To-morrow  morning  he 
could  set  off  to  see  Moran.  Moran's  misfortune  inter- 
ested him,  and  he  resolved  to  see  Moran  through  it.  He 
began  to  remember  everything  from  the  beginning:  his 
own  melancholy  by  the  lake,  and  how  Moran  had  come 
down  to  fetch  him;  their  conversation  and  the  walk 
through  the  mountains  7  their  prayer  leaning  over  the 
wall  looking  up  at  the  white  sky  above  them,  full  of  white 
flimsy  clouds.  It  was  wonderfully  exciting,  and  he  sat 
thinking,  though  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  the  lamplight 
streaming  over  him,  feeling  no  longer  lonely. 

But  as  all  roads  are  said  to  lead  to  Rome,  so  do  man's 
thoughts  lead  to  the  woman  that  lives  in  his  heart;  and 
as  Father  Oliver  stumbled  to  his  feet — he  had  walked 
many  miles,  and  was  tired — he  began  to  think  he  must  tell 
Rose  of  the  miracle  that  had  happened  about  a  mile — he 

206 


THE   LAKE 

thought  it  was  just  a  mile — past  Patsy  Regan's  public 
house.  The  miracle  would  impress  her,  and  he  looked 
round  the  room.  It  was  then  he  caught  sight  of  a  letter — 
her  letter!  The  envelope  and  foreign  stamp  told  him 
that  before  he  read  the  address — her  writing!  He 
turned  pale,  for  she  was  telling  him  the  very  things  he 
had  longed  to  know.  There  could  be  no  doubt  any  longer 
that  she  was  in  love  with  Ellis ;  she  was  not  only  in  love 
with  him — she  was  his  mistress! 

The  room  seemed  to  tumble  about  him,  and  he 
grasped  the  end  of  the  chimney-piece.  And  then,  feeling 
that  he  must  get  out  into  the  open  air,  he  thought  of 
Moran.  He  began  to  feel  he  must  speak  to  him.  He 
couldn't  remember  exactly  what  he  had  to  say  to  him, 
but  there  was  something  on  his  mind  which  he  must 
speak  to  Moran  about.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 
go  away  with  Moran  to  some  public  house  far  away  and 
drink.  Hadn't  Moran  said  that  there  were  times  when 
we  all  wanted  drink?  He  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
.  .  .  Something  had  gone  wrong,  but  he  couldn't  remem- 
ber what  had  gone  wrong  or  where  he  was.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  somebody  had  lost  her  soul.  He  must  seek 
it.  It  was  his  duty.  Being  a  priest,  he  must  go  forth 
and  find  the  soul,  and  bring  it  back  to  God.  And  then  he 
remembered  no  more  until  he  found  himself  suddenly  in 
the  midst  of  a  great  wood,  standing  in  an  open  space; 
about  him  were  dripping  trees,  and  a  ghostly  sky  over- 
head, and  no  sound  but  the  sound  of  the  leaves  falling. 
Every  now  and  again  a  large  leaf  floated  down,  and  each 
interested  him  till  it  reached  the  wet  earth. 

207 


THE  LAKE 

And  then  he  began  to  wonder  why  he  was  in  the 
wood  at  night,  and  why  he  should  be  waiting  there,  look- 
ing at  the  glimmering  sky,  seeing  the  oak  leaves  falling. 
He  was  looking  for  her  soul,  for  her  lost  soul ;  and  some- 
thing had  told  him  he  would  find  the  soul  he  was  seeking 
in  the  wood.  He  was  drawn  from  glade  to  glade  through 
the  underwoods,  and  through  places  so  thickly  overgrown 
that  it  seemed  impossible  to  pass  through,  but  even  thorn 
bushes  gave  way  before  them.  For  he  was  no  longer 
alone.  He  had  found  her.  She  had  descended  from  the 
trees  into  his  arms,  white  and  cold.  Every  moment  the 
wood  grew  dimmer;  but  when  he  expected  it  to  disap- 
pear, when  he  thought  he  was  going  to  escape  forever 
with  her,  an  opening  in  the  trees  discovered  the  lake, 
and  in  fear  he  turned  back  into  the  wood,  seeking  out 
paths  where  there  was  little  light.  There  was  no  remem- 
brance of  the  past,  only  a  happy  sympathy. 

Once  he  was  within  the  wood  the  mist  seemed  to  in- 
corporate again;  she  descended  again  into  his  arms,  and 
this  time  he  would  have  lifted  the  veil  and  looked  into 
her  face,  but  she  seemed  to  forbid  him  to  recognize  her 
under  penalty  of  loss.  His  desire  overcame  him,  and  he 
put  out  his  hand  to  lift  the  veil.  As  he  did  so  his  eyes 
opened,  he  saw  the  wet  wood,  the  shining  sky,  and  she  sit- 
ting by  a  stone  waiting  for  him.  A  little  later  she  came 
to  meet  him  from  behind  the  hawthorns  that  grew  along 
the  cart  track — a  tall  woman  with  a  little  bend  in  her 
walk. 

He  wondered  why  he  had  been  so  foolish  as  to 
disobey  her,  and  besought  her  to  return  to  him.  They 

208 


THE  LAKE 

roamed  again  in  the  paths  that  led  round  the  rocks  over- 
grown with  briars,  by  the  great  oak  tree  where  the  leaves 
were  falling.  They  had  been  smiling  gently,  but  sud- 
denly she  seemed  to  tell  him  that  he  must  abide  by  the 
shores  of  the  lake — why  he  could  not  understand,  for  the 
wood  was  much  more  beautiful,  and  he  was  more  alone 
with  her  in  the  wood  than  by  the  lake. 

Till  now  the  sympathy  had  been  so  complete  that 
there  had  been  no  need  for  words.  And  now  it  was 
no  longer  her  voice !  He  strove  to  understand,  for  what 
voice  could  it  be  but  hers?  There  was  a  roughness  in 
the  voice,  and  presently  he  heard  somebody  asking  him 
why  he  was  about  this  time  of  night,  and  very  gradually 
he  began  to  understand  that  one  of  his  parishioners  was 
by  him,  asking  him  whither  he  was  going. 

"  You'll  be  catching  your  death  at  this  hour  of  the 
night,  Father  Oliver." 

And  the  man  told  Father  Oliver  he  was  on  his  way 
to  a  fair,  and  for  a  short  cut  he  had  come  through  the 
wood.  And  Father  Oliver  listened,  thinking  all  the  while 
that  he  must  have  been  dreaming,  for  he  could  remember 
nothing  that  had  .happened. 

"  Now,  your  reverence,  we're  at  your  own  door,  and 
the  door  is  open.  When  you  went  out  you  forgot  to 
close  it." 

The  priest  didn't  answer. 

"  I  hope  no  harm  will  come  to  your  reverence ;  and 
you'll  be  lucky  if  you  haven't  caught  your  death." 


209 


XIII 

HE  stopped  in  his  undressing  to  remember  how 
Moran  had  come  to  him  to  tell  him  he  was 
going  away  on  a  drinking  bout.  All  that  had 
happened  came  back  to  him — he  remembered  the  miracle, 
and  how  he  had  sat  down  in  his  armchair  to  think  the 
matter  out  after  bidding  Moran  good-by.  It  was  not 
until  he  had  risen  to  his  feet  to  go  to  bed  that  he  had 
caught  sight  of  the  letter.  And  in  it  Rose  had  told  him 
— he  could  not  remember  exactly  what  she  had  said.  The 
letter  was  in  his  pocket,  but  his  brain  was  too  tired  to 
read,  and  he  threw  himself  into  bed,  hoping  he  had  mis- 
understood her  letter.  He  would  see  it  in  the  morning. 
After  sleeping  for  many  hours,  his  eyes  at  last  opened, 
and  he  awoke  wondering,  asking  himself  where  he  was. 
Even  the  familiar  room  "surprised  him.  And  then  began 
the  painful  process  of  picking  his  way  back.  He  remem- 
bered a  good  deal,  but  he  couldn't  remember  what  had 
happened  from  the  time  he  left  his  house  in  search  of 
Moran  till  he  was  overtaken  by  Alec  in  the  wood.  In 
some  semiconscious  state  he  must  have  wandered  off  to 
Derrinrush.  He  must  have  wandered  a  long  while — two 
hours,  maybe  more — through  the  familiar  paths,  but  un- 
aware that  he  was  choosing  them.  As  well  as  he  could 
remember,  he  had  followed  something.  He  shrank  from 

210 


THE   LAKE 

trying  to  remember;  he  was  almost  glad  to  listen  to  Cath- 
erine, who  had  already  learned  what  had  happened.  She 
had  come  to  tell  him  that  Alec  had  come  up  from  the 
village  to  inquire  how  the  priest  was. 

She  waited  to  hear  Father  Oliver's  account  of  him- 
self, but  not  having  a  story  prepared  he  pretended  he 
was  too  tired  to  speak;  and  as  he  lay  back  in  his  chair 
he  composed  a  little  story,  telling  how  he  had  been  for 
a  long  walk  with  Father  Moran,  and,  coming  back  in  the 
dark,  had  missed  his  way  on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood. 
She  began  to  raise  some  objections,  but  he  said  she  was 
not  to  excite  herself  unduly,  and  went  out  to  see  Alec, 
who  was,  fortunately,  not  a  very  quick-witted  fellow. 

So  far  as  Alec  remembered,  the  priest  was  wandering 
about  like  one  daft,  but  Father  Oliver  impressed  upon 
him  that  he  was  mistaken.  Alec  went  away  trying  to 
assimilate  a  very  modified  version  of  the  incident,  and 
Father  Oliver  returned  to  his  study  wondering  if  he  had 
succeeded  in  deceiving  Catherine.  Apparently  he  had, 
for  when  she  came  to  visit  him  again  from  her  kitchen 
she  spoke  of  something  quite  different;  and  he  was  sur- 
prised, for  she  was  a  very  observant  woman,  and  her 
curiosity  was  inexhaustible.  This  time,  however,  he  had 
managed  to  keep  his  secret  from  her,  and,  dismissing  her, 
he  remembered  Rose's  letter.  She  could  have  only  had 
one  object  in  writing  him  as  she  did.  She  wouldn't  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  tell  the  story  of  the  man  who  had 
murdered  his  mistress's  husband  unless  she  were  tired  of 
this  correspondence,  and  wished  to  break  it  off.  She  had 
told  the  story  callously  in  order  to  prove  to  him  that  she 

211 


THE   LAKE 

was  indifferent  to  Christian  morality.  Her  letter  was  a 
piece  of  callous  paganism  from  end  to  end.  Her  ad- 
miration of  Italy,  her  description  of  the  sculpturesque 
mountains  about  Rapallo,  were  written  for  a  purpose. 
Her  letter  seemed  to  him  antichristian  even  when  she 
spoke  of  orange  trees  and  terraces  and  balustrades,  and, 
as  if  she  feared  she  might  be  misunderstood,  she  had 
added  that  anecdote — that  terrible  anecdote — of  the  man 
who  had  murdered  his  mistress's  husband. 


From  Miss  Rose  Leicester  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"  RAPALLO,  ITALY, 
"Norember  12,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  FATHER  GOGARTY: 

"  I  received  '  The  Imitation '  to-day  and  your  two 
letters,  one  asking  me  if  I  had  got  the  book.  We  had 
left  Munich  without  giving  instructions  about  our  let- 
ters, so  please  accept  my  apologies  and  my  best  thanks. 
The  Elizabethan  translation,  as  you  point  out,  is  beauti- 
ful English,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  the  book;  it  will 
remind  me  of  you,  and  I  will  keep  it  by  me  even  if  I  do 
not  read  it  very  often.  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  especially 
suited  to  me;  it  certainly  isn't  in  tune  with  my  present 
mood,  and  will  you  be  very  shocked  if  I  tell  you  that 
it  doesn't  strike  me  as  a  very  truthful  book?  It  may  be 
pretty  to  write,  '  Learn  to  be  a  fool  and  to  be  despised  ' ; 
but  does  anyone  really  want  to  learn  to  be  a  fool  and  to 
be  despised?  Do  you?  And  I  don't  like  any  better  the 
admonition,  '  If  thou  canst  endure  so  little,  how  wilt 

212 


THE   LAKE 

thou  be  able  to  suffer  eternal  torments  ? '  I  have  never 
felt  like  this,  and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  shall.  I  hope  not, 
for  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  a  very  pretty  way  of 
thinking  about  God.  I  passed  the  book  over  to  Mr.  Ellis ; 
he  read  it  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  returned  it  to  me. 
'  A  worthy  man,  no  doubt,'  he  said,  '  but  prone  to  taking 
things  for  granted.' 

" '  The  Imitation '  reminds  me  of  a  flower  growing 
in  the  shade  of  a  cloister,  dying  for  lack  of  sun,  and  this 
is  surely  not  the  right  kind  of  reading  for  you,  above  all 
people,  to  indulge  in  at  the  present  moment  of  your  life. 
Your  letters  tell  me  very  plainly  of  your  despondency, 
and  I  fear  I  am  in  a  way  the  cause  of  it.  I  was  a  trouble 
to  you  when  I  was  in  the  parish,  and  I  seem  to  have 
become  a  worse  trouble  to  you  now  that  I  am  out  of  it. 
You  brood  over  your  responsibility,  and  nothing  can  cure 
you  but  change  of  scene.  I  feel  sure  you  want  a  change. 
Change  of  scene  brings  a  change  of  mind.  Why  don't 
you  come  to  Italy?  Italy  is  the  place  for  you.  Italy 
is  your  proper  mind.  Mr.  Ellis  says  that  Italy  is  every 
man's  proper  mind,  and  you're  evidently  thinking  of  Italy, 
for  you  ask  for  a  description  of  where  I  am  staying, 
saying  that  a  ray  of  Italian  sunlight  will  cheer  you. 
Come  to  Italy.  You  can  come  here  without  danger  of 
meeting  us.  We  are  leaving  at  the  end  of  the  month. 
You  want  the  sun.  You  want  life.  You  want  to  see 
people  living,  not  for  the  next  world,  but  for  this,  and 
there  is  no  place  where  people  enjoy  life  as  much  as  in 
Italy.  Not  only  the  men,  but  the  women  enjoy  them- 
selves, even  the  very  poorest.  The  houses  of  the  poor 

213 


THE   LAKE 

are  odd  and  pretty,  and  they  are  painted  pretty  colors. 
There  are  flowers  and  plants  everywhere,  hanging  out 
of  balconies  and  in  out-of-the-way  niches.  The  poor 
wear  pretty,  quaint  clothes,  and  drink  nice  wine,  and  not 
that  horrid  porter.  And  the  country!  No  wonder  the 
Italians  were  sculptors.  The  very  hills  are  like  pieces 
of  sculpture,  quite  unlike  the  Irish  hills,  shuffling  down 
the  sky  like  an  old  priest  reading  his  breviary.  You  will 
forgive  me  this  phrase,  for  you  are  not  old,  and  I  cannot 
help  writing  it,  for  it  amuses  me  to  write  it. 

"  I  am  having  a  heavenly  time — yes,  indeed,  a  really 
heavenly  time — and  constantly  I  find  myself  thanking 
you  for  it.  For  hadn't  it  been  for  your  bad  temper  I 
might  still  be  teaching  little  barefooted  children  their 
A  B  C  in  Garranard.  But  you  won't  like  this  allusion, 
and  I  feel  I  am  unkind.  I  would  scratch  it  out,  only  I 
should  have  to  write  the  letter  over  again.  Forget  I've 
written  it,  and  listen  to  me  telling  you  about  Italy.  I 
wish  you  could  see  some  of  the  gardens  here,  the  marble 
gateways  and  the  trees  growing  about  them.  You,  who 
are  fond  of  trees,  would  appreciate  the  ilex,  and  the  little 
villages,  every  one  compact  round  its  domed  church  and 
campanile,  with  the  house  shaded  on  the  sunny  side  by 
a  screen  of  vines  ten  feet  or  so  from  the  wall.  In  the 
fields  along  the  hillside  one  finds  lavender  and  rosemary 
and  myrtle  and  sweet  bay  growing  wild — every  sort  of 
sweet-scented  thing. 

"  Mr.  Ellis  and  I  go  for  long  walks.  To-day  we 
walked  up  to  a  monastery;  it  stands  in  a  grove  of  ilex 
trees,  right  at  the  top  of  the  mountains,  two  and  a  half 

214 


THE   LAKE 

hours'  steady  walk  up  a  sunny  paved  path,  where  no 
carts  can  go — Mont  Allegro  is  its  name.  The  moun- 
tains opposite  were  covered  with  snow,  but  the  stony 
valley  between  us  was  full  of  violet  mist,  and  nearly  all 
the  way  up  were  olive  orchards.  We  stopped  to  ponder 
on  the  industry  of  the  Italian  people  in  terracing  that 
steep  hill  for  the  olives  to  find  roothold.  You  would  be 
interested  in  the  churches,  but  I  do  not  know  that  you 
would  appreciate  religion  as  it  is  practiced  here.  It 
seems  to  me  to  be  no  more  than  a  little  superstition 
affecting  human  life,  no  more  than  the  belief  in  fairies 
affects  the  life  of  the  Irish  peasant. 

"  If  the  people  do  not  go  often  to  confession,  they  go 
to  fortune  tellers,  and  sometimes  the  results  are  serious. 
A  man  living  in  the  very  street  I  am  living  in  consulted 
one  about  a  woman  whom  he  was  passionately  in  love 
with — his  neighbor's  wife.  The  sorcerer  told  him  that 
very  soon  the  husband,  of  whom  the  lover  was  very 
jealous,  would  lose  his  wife's  affection,  and  the  lover  was' 
so  overjoyed  at  hearing  this  that  he  went  away  and  killed 
the  husband.  The  poor  fellow  has  been  imprisoned  in  a 
great  old  tower  built  up  in  the  sea.  And  there  can't  be 
much  light,  for  the  windows  are  little  holes ;  and  it  must 
be  mournful,  for  the  sea  growls  all  the  time.  I  expect 
he  is  sorry,  and  I  often  wonder  how  they  will  punish  him. 

"  But  I  could  go  on  chattering  page  after  page,  tell- 
ing you  about  gardens  and  orange  trees  (the  orange  trees 
are  the  best  part  of  the  decoration ;  even  now  the  great 
fruit  hangs  in  the  green  leaves)  ;  and  when  I  had  de- 
scribed Italy,  and  you  had  described  all  the  castles  and 

215 


THE  LAKE 

the  islands,  we  could  turn  back  and  discuss  our  religious 
differences.  But  I  doubt  if  any  good  would  come  of 
this  correspondence.  You  see,  I  have  got  my  work  to 
do,  and  you  have  got  yours,  and,  notwithstanding  all  you 
say,  I  do  not  believe  you  to  be  unable  to  write  the  history 
of  the  lake  and  its  castles.  Your  letters  prove  that  you 
can,  only  your  mind  is  unhinged  by  fears  for  my  spiritual 
safety,  and  depressed  by  the  Irish  climate.  I  remember  it 
when  I  lived  in  my  little  cottage,  and  how  lonely  I  was 
in  the  evenings,  and  how  dreadful  the  thought  was  that 
one  day  I  should  have  to  tell  you  I  was  going  to  have 
a  baby,  and  must  go  away.  There  were  times  when  I 
was  so  miserable  that  I  knelt  down  and  prayed  that  I 
might  die.  But  these  moods  pass  away.  .  .  .  Your  let- 
ter about  the  hermit  that  lived  on  Church  Island  is  most 
beautiful.  You  have  struck  the  right  note — the  wistful 
Irish  note — and  if  you  can  write  a  book  in  that  strain  I 
am  sure  it  will  meet  with  great  success.  Go  on  with  your 
book,  and  don't  write  to  me  any  more — at  least,  not  for 
the  present.  I  have  got  too  much  to  do,  and  cannot  at- 
tend to  a  lengthy  correspondence.  We  are  going  to 
Paris,  and  are  looking  forward  to  spending  a  great  deal 
of  time  reading  in  the  National  Library.  Some  day  we 
may  meet,  or  take  up  this  correspondence  again.  At 
present  I  feel  that  it  is  better  for  you  and  better  for  me 
that  it  should  cease.  But  you  will  not  think  hardly  of 
me  because  I  write  you  this.  I  am  writing  in  your  own 
interests,  dear  Father  Gogarty. 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  ROSE  LEICESTER." 
216 


THE   LAKE 

He  read  the  letter  slowly,  pondering  every  sentence 
and  every  word,  and  when  he  had  finished  it  his  hand 
dropped  upon  his  knee ;  and  when  the  letter  fell  upon  the 
hearthrug  he  did  not  stoop  to  pick  it  up,  but  sat  looking 
into  the  fire,  convinced  that  everything  was  over  and 
done.  There  was  nothing  to  look  forward  to;  his  life 
would  drag  on  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to  week, 
month  to  month,  year  to  year,  till  at  last  he  would  be 
taken  away  to  the  grave.  And  to  live  on,  never  seeing 
her  or  even  hearing  from  her  seemed  to  him  the  most 
unbearable  lot  that  could  have  fallen  to  his  share.  The 
hunt  was  over,  and  the  spoil  lay  hearing  with  dying  ears 
the  horns  calling  to  each  other  in  the  echoing  distances ; 
and  cast  in  his  chair,  his  arms  hanging  like  dead  arms, 
his  senses  mercifully  benumbed,  he  lay,  how  long  he 
knew  not,  but  it  must  have  been  a  long  time. 

Catherine  came  into  the  room  with  some  spoons  in 
her  hands,  and  asked  him  what  the  matter  was,  and, 
getting  up  hastily,  he  answered  her  rudely,  for  her 
curiosity  annoyed  him.  It  was  irritating  to  have  to  wait 
for  her  to  leave  the  room,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  begin 
thinking  again  while  she  was  there.  The  door  closed 
at  last ;  he  was  alone  again,  and  his  thoughts  fixed  them- 
selves at  once  on  the  end  of  her  letter,  on  the  words, 
"  Go  on  with  your  book,  and  don't  write  to  me  any  more 
— at  least,  not  for  the  present.  I  have  got  too  much  to 
do,  and  cannot  attend  to  a  lengthy  correspondence." 
The  evident  cruelty  of  her  words  surprised  him.  There 
was  nothing  like  this  in  any  of  her  other  letters.  She  in- 
tended these  words  as  a  coup  de  grace.  There  was  little 

217 


THE   LAKE 

mercy  in  them,  for  they  left  him  living,  he  still  lived — in 
a  way. 

There  was  no  use  trying  to  misunderstand  her  words. 
To  do  so  would  be  foolish,  even  if  it  were  possible  for 
him  to  deceive  himself,  and  the  rest  of  her  letter  mat- 
tered nothing  to  him.  Her  descriptions  of  Italy  and  her 
admiration  of  a  murderer  he  regarded  as  the  common 
affectations  of  "  culture,"  and  he  had  little  taste  for  them. 
The  two  little  sentences  with  which  she  dismissed  him 
were  his  sole  concern;  they  were  the  keys  to  the  whole 
of  this  correspondence  which  had  beguiled  him.  And 
to  beguile  him  had  been  her  primary  object.  Fool  that 
he  had  been  not  to  see  it !  Alas !  we  see  only  what  we 
want  to  see.  He  might  have  known  that  she  would  not 
have  put  herself  to  the  trouble  of  writing  all  these  let- 
ters without  a  purpose,  pages  and  pages,  and  her  purpose 
was  his  punishment.  Well,  she  had  succeeded,  and  to 
the  top  of  her  bent.  Nor  would  he  attempt  to  argue  that 
he  did  not  deserve  all  the  punishment  that  she  had  meas- 
ured out  to  him.  Great  as  the  pain  of  loss  undoubtedly 
was,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  bear  that  pain  with 
greater  fortitude  if  there  had  not  been  added  the  possibly 
greater  pain  of  finding  her  unworthy.  The  intrigue  he 
had  discovered  was  a  miserably  cruel  one.  Such  an  in- 
trigue should  have  been  played  off  on  a  man  of  the 
world;  to  select  a  poor  lonely  priest  like  him  was  not 
worthy  of  her. 

Occasionally  he  meditated  Ellis's  complicity  in  this 
intrigue.  But  Ellis  didn't  interest  him — this  man  was 
a  shadow — and  he  wandered  about,  trying  to  bring  him- 

218 


THE   LAKE 


self  to  hate  her.  He  even  stopped  in  his  walks  to  ad- 
dress insulting  words  to  her.  Words  of  common  abuse 
came  to  his  tongue  readily,  but  there  was  an  unconquer- 
able tenderness  in  his  heart  always;  and  one  day  the 
thought  went  by  that  it  was  nobler  of  her  to  make  him 
suffer  than  to  have  meekly  forgiven  him,  as  many  women 
would  have  done,  remembering  he  was  a  priest.  He 
stopped  affrighted,  and  presently  he  began  to  wonder  if 
this  were  the  first  time  her  easy  forgiveness  of  his  mis- 
take had  seemed  suspicious.  No,  he  remembered  that 
some  sort  of  shadow  of  disappointment  had  passed  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  when  he  read  her  first  letter.  After 
having  been  buried  for  months  at  the  back  of  his  mind 
this  idea  had  come  to  the  surface.  Truly  an  extraordinary 
perversion,  which  he  could  only  account  for  by  the  fact 
that  he  had  always  looked  upon  her  as  being  more  like 
what  the  primitive  woman  must  have  been  than  anyone 
else  in  the  world,  and  the  first  instinct  of  the  primitive 
woman  would  be  to  revenge  any  slight  on  her  sexual 
pride.  He  had  misread  her  character,  and  in  this  new 
reading  he  found  a  temporary  consolation. 

As  he  sat  thinking  of  her  he  heard  a  mouse  gnawing 
under  the  boards,  and  every  night  after  the  mouse  came 
to  gnaw.  "  The  teeth  of  regret  are  the  same ;  my  life  is 
being  gnawed  away.  .  .  .  Never  shall  I  see  her."  It 
seemed  impossible  that  life  would  close  on  him,  and  he 
not  to  see  her  face  or  hear  her  voice  again.  The  black- 
ness of  the  loveless  death  he  saw  in  front  of  him  turned 
his  thoughts  heavenward,  and  he  began  to  think  how  it 
would  be  if  they  were  to  meet  on  the  other  side.  For  he 

219 


THE  LAKE 

believed  in  heaven,  and  that  was  a  good  thing.  Without 
such  belief  there  would  be  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to 
go  down  to  the  lake  and  make  an  end  of  himself.  But 
believing  as  he  did  in  heaven,  and  the  holy  Catholic 
Church  to  be  the  surest  way  of  getting  there,  he  had  a 
great  deal  to  be  thankful  for.  .  .  .  Ellis's  possession  of 
her  was  but  temporary,  a  few  years  at  most,  whereas 
his  possession  of  her,  if  he  were  so  fortunate  as  to  gain 
heaven,  and  by  his  prayers  to  bring  her  back  to  the  true 
fold,  would  endure  forever  and  ever.  The  wisest  thing, 
therefore,  for  him  to  do  would  be  to  enter  a  Trappist 
monastery.  But  our  Lord  says  that  in  heaven  there  is 
neither  marriage  nor  giving  in  marriage,  and  what  would 
heaven  be  to  him  without  Rose  ?  No  more  than  a  union 
of  souls,  and  he  wanted  her  body  as  well  as  her  soul.  He 
must  pray.  He  knew  the  feeling  well — a  sort  of  mental 
giddiness,  a  delirium  in  the  brain;  and  it  increased 
rapidly,  urging  him  to  fall  on  his  knees.  If  he  resisted', 
it  was  because  he  was  ashamed  and  feared  to  pray  to  God 
to  reserve  Rose  for  him.  But  the  whirl  in  his  brain  soon 
deprived  him  of  all  power  of  resistance,  and,  looking 
round  the  room  hurriedly  to  assure  himself  he  was  not 
watched,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  burst  into  extemporary 
prayer :  "  O  my  God,  whatever  punishment  there  is  to  be 
borne,  let  me  bear  it.  She  sinned,  no  doubt,  and  her  sins 
must  be  atoned  for.  Let  me  bear  the  punishment  that 
Thou,  in  Thy  infinite  wisdom,  must  adjudge  to  her,  poor 
sinful  woman  that  she  is,  poor  woman  persecuted  by  men, 
persecuted  by  me.  O  my  God,  remember  that  I  lent  a 
willing  ear  to  scandalmongers,  that  I  went  down  that  day 

220 


THE   LAKE 

to  the  school  and  lost  my  temper  with  her,  that  I  spoke? 
against  her  in  my  church.  All  the  sins  that  have  been 
committed  are  my  sins;  let  me  bear  the  punishment.  O 
my  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  do  Thou  intercede  with  Thy 
Father  and  ask  Him  to  heap  all  the  punishment  on  my 
head.  O  dear  Lord  Jesus,  if  I  had  only  thought  of  Thee 
when  I  went  down  to  the  school,  if  I  had  remembered 
Thy  words,  'Let  him  who  is  without  sin  cast  the  first' 
stone,'  I  should  have  been  spared  this  anguish.  If  I  had 
remembered  Thy  words  she  might  have  gone  to  Dublin 
and  had  her  baby  there,  and  come  back  to  the  parish.  O 
my  God,  the  fault  is  mine;  all  the  faults  that  have  been 
committed  can  be  traced  back  to  me;  therefore  I  beseech 
of  Thee,  I  call  upon  Thee,  to  let  me  bear  all  the  punish- 
ment that  she  has  earned  by  her  sins,  poor  erring  creature 
that  she  is.  0  my  God,  do  this  for  me;  remember  that  I 
served  Thee  well  for  many  years  when  I  lived  among  the 
poor  folk  in  the  mountains.  For  all  these  years  I  ask  this 
thing  of  Thee,  that  Thou  wilt  let  me  bear  her  punishment. 
Is  it  too  much  I  am  asking  of  Thee,  O  my  God,  is  it  too 
much?" 

When  he  gofe  up  from  his  knees  a  chime  of  bells 
seemed  to  be  going  on  in  his  head,  and  he  wondered  if 
another  miracle  had  happened.  It  certainly  was  as  if 
some  one  had  laid  hands  on  him  and  forced  him  on  his 
knees.  But  to  ask  the  Almighty  to  extend  His  protection 
to  him  rather  than  to  Mr.  Ellis,  who  was  a  Protestant, 
seemed  not  a  little  gross.  Father  Oliver  experienced  a 
shyness  that  he  had  never  known  before,  and  he  hoped 
the  Almighty  would  not  be  offended  at  the  familiarity 
15  221 


THE  LAKE 

of  the  language,  or  the  intimate  nature  of  the  request, 
for  to  ask  for  Rose's  body  as  well  as  her  soul  was  not 
very  orthodox. 

Next  day  his  mood  had  changed,  and  the  Mass  he 
offered  up  that  she  might  not  die  in  mortal  sin  seemed 
to  him  a  very  trite  and  commonplace  affair  compared 
with  the  personal  ecstasy  of  his  prayer  over  night.  A 
moment  of  religious  ecstasy  had  been  vouchsafed  to  him, 
but  he  must  not  understand  this  last  spiritual  exaltation 
as  a  return  to  religion;  and  feeling  that  his  faith  was 
about  to  be  taken  from  him,  he  looked  back  upon  his 
prayer  as  a  belated  bird  struggling  after  the  flock  that 
had  disappeared  long  ago  over  the  horizon.  It  was 
queer  to  think  like  that.  Perhaps  his  brain  was  giving 
way.  And  he  pushed  the  plates  aside;  he  could  not 
eat  any  dinner,  nor  could  he  take  any  interest  in  his 
garden. 

The  dahlias  were  over,  the  chrysanthemums  were 
beginning,  and  in  these  languid  autumn  days  the  desire 
to  write  to  Rose  crept  nearer,  until  it  always  seemed  about 
him,  like  some  familiar  animal.  Never  had  the  country 
seemed  so  still ;  dead  birds  in  the  woods,  and  the  sounds 
of  leaves,  and  the  fitful  November  sunlight  on  the 
strands — these  were  his  distractions  when  he  went  out 
for  a  walk,  and  when  he  came  in  he  often  thought  it 
would  be  well  if  he  did  not  live  to  see  another  day,  so 
heavy  did  the  days  seem,  so  uninteresting  had  life 
become.  Very  often  there  was  a  lightness  in  his  brain 
which  he  could  not  account  for,  a  desire  to  go  mad,  a 
nervous  sense  of  time  and  things;  the  strain  grew  so 

222 


THE   LAKE 

intense  that  he  fancied  something  would  break  in  his 
brain,  and  to  save  himself  he  began  a  letter. 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"November  18,  19 — . 

"  DEAR  Miss  LEICESTER  : 

"  I  should  have  written  to  you  before,  but  I  lacked 
courage.  Do  you  remember  saying  that  the  loneliness 
of  the  country  sometimes  forced  you  to  kneel  down  to 
pray  that  you  might  die?  I  think  the  loneliness  that 
overcame  you  was  the  loneliness  that  comes  at  the  end 
of  an  autumn  day  when  the  dusk  gathers  in  the  room. 
It  seems  to  steal  all  one's  courage  away,  and  one  looks 
up  from  one's  work  in  despair,  asking  of  what  value  is 
one's  life.  The  world  goes  on  just  the  same,  grinding 
our  souls  away.  Nobody  seems  to  care;  nothing  seems 
to  make  any  difference. 

"  Human  life  is  a  very  lonely  thing ;  I  never  knew 
how  lonely  till  this  autumn.  Perhaps  my  perceptions 
were  quickened  -by  your  kind  advice  to  come  abroad. 
A  caged  bird  simply  beats  its  wings  and  dies,  but  a 
human  being  does  not  die  of  loneliness,  even  when  he 
prays  for  death.  You  have  experienced  it  all,  and  you 
will  know  what  I  feel  when  I  tell  you  that  I  spend  my 
time  watching  the  eternal  rain,  thinking  of  sunshine,  pic- 
ture galleries,  and  libraries. 

"  But  you  were  right  to  bid  me  remain  here,  fulfilling 
the  duties  that  I  had  undertaken.  Had  I  gone  away,  as 

223 


THE   LAKE 

you  first  suggested,  I  should  have  been  unhappy,  for  I 
should  have  thought  continually  of  the  poor  people  I  had 
left  behind;  and  the  fear  that  I  had  expressed  in  my 
letter,  that  if  I  once  went  away  I  should  not  return,  has 
become  a  settled  conviction.  I  might  get  a  parish  in 
England  or  a  chaplaincy,  but  I  should  always  look  upon 
the  desertion  of  my  poor  people  as  a  moral  delinquency. 
A  quiet  conscience  is,  after  all,  a  great  possession,  and 
for  the  sake  of  a  quiet  conscience  I  will  remain  here,  and 
you  will  be  able  to  understand  my  scruple  when  you 
think  'how  helpless  my  people  are,  and  how  essential  is 
the  kindly  guidance  of  the  priest. 

"  Without  a  leader  the  people  are  helpless ;  they 
wander  like  sheep  on  a  mountain  side,  falling  over  rocks 
or  dying  amid  snowdrifts.  Sometimes  the  shepherd 
grows  weary  of  watching,  and  the  question  arises  if  one 
has  no  duty  toward  one's  self.  Then  one  begins  to 
wonder  what  is  one's  duty  and  what  is  duty — if  duty  is 
more  than  the  opinions  of  others,  a  convention  which  no 
one  would  like  to  hear  called  into  question,  because  he 
feels  instinctively  that  it  is  well  for  everyone  to  continue 
in  the  rut,  for,  after  all,  a  rut  means  a  road,  and  roads 
are  necessary.  If  one  lets  one's  self  go  on  thinking, 
one  very  soon  finds  that  wrong  and  right  are  indis- 
tinguishable, so  perhaps  it  is  better  to  follow  the  rut 
if  one  can.  But  following  of  the  rut  is  beset  with  diffi- 
culties; there  are  big  holes  on  either  side.  Sometimes 
the  road  ends  nowhere,  and  one  gets  lost  in  spite  of 
one's  self.  But  why  am  I  writing  all  these  things  to 
you?" 

224 


THE   LAKE 

Why,  indeed?  If  he  were  to  send  this  letter  she 
would  show  it  to  Mr.  Ellis,  and  they  would  laugh  over 
it  together.  "  Poor  priest ! "  they  would  say.  He 
crumpled  up  the  paper  and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  "  My 
life  is  unendurable,"  he  said,  as  he  watched  the  sheets  of 
paper  burn.  "And  it  will  grow  worse."  He  fell  to 
thinking  how  he  would  grow  old,  getting  every  day  more 
like  an  old  stereotyped  plate,  the  Mass  and  the  rosary  at 
the  end  of  his  tongue,  and  nothing  in  his  heart.  He  had 
seen  many  priests  lik*e  this.  Could  he  fall  into  such 
miserable  decadence?  Could  such  obedience  to  rule  be 
any  man's  duty  ?  But  where  should  he  go  ?  What  matter 
where  he  went,  for  he  would  never  see  her  any  more, 
and  she  was,  after  all,  the  only  real  thing  in  the  world 
for  him. 

So  did  he  continue  to  suffer  like  an  animal,  mutely, 
instinctively,  mourning  his  life  away,  forgetful  of  every- 
thing but  his  grief;  unmindful  of  his  food,  and  unable 
to  sleep  when  he  lay  down,  or  to  distinguish  between 
familiar  things — the  birds  about  his  house,  the  boys  and 
girls  he  had  baptized.  He  had  to  think  a  moment  before 
he  knew  which  was  Mary  and  which  was  Bridget,  which 
was  Patsy  and  which  was  Mike,  and  very  often  Catherine 
was  in  the  parlor  many  minutes  before  he  noticed  her 
presence.  She  stood  watching  him,  wondering  of  what 
he  was  thinking,  for  he  sat  in  his  chair,  getting  weaker 
and  thinner;  and  soon  he  began  to  look  haggard  as  an 
old  man  or  one  about  to  die.  He  seemed  to  grow  feebler 
in  mind ;  his  attention  wandered  away  every  few  minutes 
from  the  book  he  was  reading.  Catherine  noticed  the 

225 


THE  LAKE 

change,  and,  thinking  that  a  little  chat  would  be  of  help, 
she  often  came  up  from  her  kitchen  to  tell  him  the  gossip 
of  the  parish :  but  he  could  not  listen  to  her,  her  garru- 
lousness  seemed  to  him  more  than  ever  unbearable,  and 
he  kept  a  book  by  him,  an  old  copy  of  "  Ivanhoe  " ;  when 
he  heard  her  step  he  pretended  he  was  reading  it. 

Father  Moran  often  came  to  discuss  the  business  of 
the  parish  with  him.  He  had  insisted  on  relieving  Father 
Oliver  of  a  great  deal  of  it,  saying  that  he  wanted  a  rest, 
and  he  often  urged  Father  Oliver  to  go  away  for  a  holi- 
day. He  was  kind,  but  his  talk  was  wearisome,  and  Father 
Oliver  thought  he  would  prefer  to  read  about  the  fabu- 
lous Rowena  than  to  hear  any  more  about  the  arch- 
bishop. But  when  Father  Moran  left,  Rowena  bored  him, 
and  so  completely  that  he  could  not  remember  at  what 
point  he  had  left  off  reading,  and  his  thoughts  wandered 
from  the  tournament  to  some  phrase  he  had  made  use  of 
in  writing  to  Rose,  or,  it  might  be,  some  phrase  of  hers 
that  would  suddenly  spring  into  his  mind.  He  sought 
no  longer  to  discover  her  character  from  her  letters,  nor 
did  he  criticise  the  many  contradictions  which  had  per- 
plexed him ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  accepted  her  now, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  "  as  she  was,"  thinking  of  her  as  he 
might  of  some  supernatural  being  whom  he  had  offended, 
and  who  had  revenged  herself.  Her  wickedness  became 
in  his  eyes  an  added  grace,  and  from  the  rack  on  which 
he  lay  he  admired  his  executioner.  Even  her  liking  for 
Mr.  Ellis  became  submerged  in  a  tide  of  suffering,  and 
of  longing,  and  weakness  of  spirit.  He  no  longer  had 
any  strength  to  question  her  liking  for  the  minor 

226 


THE   LAKE 

prophets;  there  were  discrepancies  in  everyone,  and  no 
doubt  there  were  in  him  as  well  as  in  her.  He  had  once 
been  very  different  from  what  he  was  to-day.  Once  he 
was  an  ardent  student  in  Maynooth,  he  had  been  an 
energetic  curate;  and  now  what  was  he?  Worse  still, 
what  was  he  becoming?  And  he  allowed  his  thoughts 
to  dwell  on  the  fact  that  every  day  she  was  receding 
from  him.  He,  too,  was  receding.  All  things  were 
receding — becoming  dimmer. 

He  piled  the  grate  up  with  turf,  and  when  the  blaze 
came  leaned  over  it,  warming  his  hands,  asking  himself 
why  she  liked  Mr.  Ellis  rather  than  him.  For  he  no 
longer  tried  to  conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that  he  loved 
her.  He  had  played  the  hypocrite  long  enough ;  he  had 
spoken  about  her  soul,  but  it  was  herself  that  he  wanted. 
This  admission  brought  some  little  relief,  but  he  felt  that 
the  relief  would  only  be  temporary.  Alas!  it  was  sur- 
render. It  was  worse  than  surrender — it  was  abandon- 
ment. He  could  sink  no  deeper.  But  he  could ;  we  can 
all  sink  deeper.  Now  what  would  the  end  be?  There 
is  an  end  to  everything;  there  must  be  an  end  even  to 
humiliation,  to  self-abasement.  It  was  Moran  over  again. 
Moran  was  ashamed  of  his  vice,  but  he  had  to  accept  it, 
and  Father  Oliver  thought  how  much  it  must  have  cost 
his  curate  to  come  to  tell  him  that  he  wanted  to  lie  drunk 
for  some  days  in  an  outhouse  in  order  to  escape  for  a 
few  days  from  the  agony  of  living.  "  That  is  what  he 
called  it,  and  I,  too,  would  escape  from  it." 

He  remembered  a  poem,  a  beautiful  poem,  written  by 
a  peasant  in  County  Cork  a  hundred  years  ago.  This 

227 


THE   LAKE 

man  met  a  woman  who  inspired  such  a  passion  that  his 
brain  gave  way.  She  deserted  him,  but  before  he  went 
mad  he  composed  this  set  of  verses,  "  which  will  live 
always,  and  always  be  read  and  admired  by  men  like 
myself,"  Father  Oliver  murmured,  "  for  there  will  always 
be  men  who  are  suffering  as  I  am  to-day."  And  he 
wondered  if  madness  would  be  the  end  of  his  suffering, 
or  if  he  would  go  down  to  the  lake  and  find  rest  in  it. 

"  Oh,  succor  me,  dear  one,  give  me  a  kiss  from  thy  mouth, 
And  lift  me  up  to  thee  from  death, 

Or  bid  them  make  for  me  a  narrow  bed,  a  coffin  of  boards, 
In  the  dark  neighborhood  of  the  worm  and  his  friends. 
My  life  is  not  life  but  death,  my  voice  is  no  voice  but  a  wind, 
There  is  no  color  in  me,  nor  life,  nor  richness,  nor  health ; 
But  in  tears  and  sorrow  and  weakness,  without  music,  without 

sport,  without  power, 
I  go  into  captivity  and  woe,  and  in  the  pain  of  my  love  of  thee." 


228 


XIV 

From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"  GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 
"  March  12,  19 — . 

ALONG  time  has  passed  without  your  hearing 
from  me,  and  I  am  sure  you  must  have  said 
more  than  once :  '  Well,  that  priest  has  more 
sense  than  I  gave  him  credit  for.  He  took  the  hint.  He 
understood  that  it  would  be  useless  for  us  to  continue  to 
write  long  letters  to  each  other  about  remorse  of  con- 
science and  Mr.  Ellis's  criticism  of  the  Bible.'  But  the 
sight  of  my  handwriting  will  call  into  question  the  opinion 
you  have  formed  of  my  good  sense,  and  you  will  say: 
'  Here  he  is,  beginning  it  all  over  again.'  No,  I  am  not. 
I  am  a  little  ashamed  of  my  former  letters,  and  am  writ- 
ing to  tell  you  so.  My  letters,  if  I  write  any,  will  be  quite 
different  in  the  future,  thanks  to  your  candor.  Your 
letter  from  Rapallo  cured  me;  like  a  surgeon's  knife,  it 
took  out  the  ulcer  that  was  eating  my  life  away.  The 
expression  will  seem  exaggerated,  I  know;  but  let  it 
remain.  You  no  doubt  felt  that  I  was  in  ignorance  of  my 
own  state  of  feelings  regarding  you,  and  you  wrote  just 
such  a  letter  as  would  force  me  to  look  into  my  heart 
and  to  discover  who  I  really  was.  You  felt  that  you 

229 


THE   LAKE 

could  help  me  to  some  knowledge  of  myself  by  telling 
me  about  yourself. 

"  The  shock  on  reading  your  confession — for  I  look 
upon  your  Rapallo  letter  as  one — was  very  great,  for 
on  reading  it  I  realized  that  a  good  deal  that  I  had 
written  to  you  about  the  salvation  of  your  soul  was  in- 
spired, not  by  any  pure  fear  that  I  had  done  anything 
that  might  lose  a  soul  to  God,  but  by  pure  selfishness.  I 
did  not  dare  to  write  boldly  that  I  loved  yourself,  and 
would  always  love  you;  I  wore  a  mask  and  a  disguise, 
and  in  order  to  come  to  terms  with  myself  I  feel  it  neces- 
sary to  confess  to  you ;  otherwise  all  the  suffering  I  have 
endured  would  be  wasted. 

"  But  this  is  not  all  my  confession ;  worse  still  remains. 
I  have  discovered  that  when  I  spoke  against  you  in 
church,  and  said  things  that  caused  you  to  leave  the 
parish,  I  did  not  do  so,  as  I  thought,  because  I  believed 
that  the  morality  of  my  parish  must  be  maintained  at  any 
cost.  I  know  now  that  jealousy — yes,  sensual  jealousy — 
prompted  me.  And  when  I  went  to  my  sisters  to  ask  them 
to  appoint  you  to  the  post  of  music  teacher  in  their  school, 
I  did  not  do  so  for  their  sake,  but  for  my  own,  because  I 
wished  to  have  you  back  in  the  parish.  But  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  think  that  when  I  wrote  about  atonement  I 
wrote  what  I  knew  to  be  untrue.  I  did  not;  the  truth 
was  hidden  from  me.  Nor  did  I  wish  to  get  you  back 
to  the  parish  in  order  that  I  might  gratify  my  passion. 
All  these  things  were  very  vague,  and  I  didn't  under- 
stand myself  until  now.  I  have  never  had  any  experience 
of  life ;  you  were  my  first  experience.  It  is  curious  that 

230 


THE  LAKE 

one  should  know  so  little  of  one's  self,  and  I  might  have 
gone  down  to  my  grave  without  ever  knowing  how  false 
I  was  at  heart,  if  I  had  not  been  stricken  down  with  a 
great  illness. 

"  One  day  Catherine  told  me  that  the  lake  was  frozen 
over,  and,  as  I  had  been  within  doors  a  long  while,  she 
advised  me  to  go  out  and  see  the  boys  sliding  on  the  ice. 
Her  advice  put  an  idea  into  my  head,  that  I  might  take 
out  my  skates  and  skate  recklessly  without  trying  to 
avoid  the  deeper  portions  where  the  ice  was  likely  to  be 
thin.  I  was  weary  of  life,  and  knowing  that  I  could  not 
go  back  upon  the  past,  and  that  no  one  would  ever  love 
me,  I  wished  to  bring  my  suffering  to  an  end.  You  will 
wonder  why  I  did  not  think  of  the  sufferings  that  I 
might  have  earned  for  myself  in  the  next  world.  I  had 
suffered  so  much  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
present  moment.  God  was  good,  and  He  saved  me,  for 
as  I  stood  irresolute  before  a  piece  of  ice  which  I  knew 
wouldn't  bear  me,  I  felt  a  great  sickness  creeping  over 
me.  I  returned  home,  and  for  several  days  the  doctor 
could  not  say  whether  I  would  live  or  die.  You  remem- 
ber Catherine,  my  servant?  She  told  me  that  the  only 
answer  the  doctor  would  give  her  was  that  if  I  were  not 
better  within  a  certain  time  there  would  be  no  hope  of 
my  recovery.  At  the  end  of  the  week  he  came  into  my 
room.  Catherine  was  waiting  outside,  and  I  hear  that 
she  fell  on  her  knees  to  thank  God  when  the  doctor  said : 
'  Yes,  he  is  a  little  better ;  if  there's  no  relapse  he'll  live.' 

"  After  a  severe  illness  one  is  alone  with  one's  self, 
and  the  whole  of  one's  life  sings  in  one's  head  like  a 

231 


THE  LAKE 

song.  Listening  to  it,  I  learned  that  jealousy  had 
prompted  me  to  speak  against  you,  and  not  any  real  care 
for  the  morality  of  my  parish.  I  discovered,  too,  that 
my  moral  ideas  were  not  my  own.  They  had  been  bor- 
rowed from  others,  and  badly  assimilated.  I  remembered 
how  at  Maynooth  the  tradition  was  always  to  despise 
women,  and  in  order  to  convince  myself  I  used  to  exag- 
gerate this  view,  and  say  things  that  made  my  fellow- 
students  look  upon  me  askance,  if  not  with  suspicion. 
But  when  the  body  is  at  rest  the  mind  is  clear,  and  dozing 
through  long  convalescent  hours  many  things  hitherto 
obscure  to  me  became  clear,  and  it  seems  now  to  me  to 
be  clearly  wrong  to  withhold  our  sympathy  from  any  side 
of  life.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  only  by  our  sympathy 
we  can  do  any  good  at  all.  God  gave  us  our  human 
nature;  we  may  misuse  and  degrade  our  nature,  but  we 
must  never  forget  that  it  came  originally  from  God. 

"  What  I  am  saying  may  not  be  in  accordance  with 
current  theology,  but  I  am  not  thinking  of  theology,  but 
of  the  things  that  were  revealed  to  me  during  my  sick- 
ness. It  was  through  my  fault  that  you  met  Mr.  Ralph 
Ellis,  and  I  must  pray  to  God  that  He  will  bring  you 
back  to  the  fold.  I  shall  pray  for  you  both.  I  wish  you 
all  happiness,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  many  kind  things 
you  have  said,  for  the  good  advice  you  have  given  me. 
You  are  quite  right:  I  want  a  change.  You  advise  me 
to  go  to  Italy,  and  you  are  right  to  advise  me  to  go  there, 
for  my  heart  yearns  for  Italy.  But  I  dare  not  go ;  for  I 
still  feel  that  if  I  left  my  parish  I  should  never  return  to 
it;  and  if  I  were  to  go  away  and  not  return  a  great 

232 


THE  LAKE 

scandal  would  be  caused,  and  I  am  more  than  ever  re- 
solved not  to  do  anything  to  grieve  the  poor  people,  who 
have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  whose  interests  I  have 
neglected  this  long  while. 

"  I  send  this  letter  to  Ethelstone  Manor,  where  you 
will  find  it  on  your  return.  As  I  have  already  said,  you 
need  not  answer  it;  no  good  will  come  by  answering  it. 
In  years  to  come,  perhaps,  when  we  are  both  different, 
we  may  meet  again. 

"OLIVER  GOGARTY." 


From  Miss  Rose  Leicester  to  Father  Oliver  Gogarty. 

"IMPERIAL  HOTEL,  CAIRO,  EGYPT, 
"Mays,  I9— • 

"  DEAR  FATHER  GOGARTY  : 

"  By  the  address  on  the  top  of  this  sheet  of  paper  you 
will  see  that  I  have  traveled  a  long  way  since  you  last 
heard  from  me,  and  ever  since  your  letter  has  been  fol- 
lowing me  about  from  hotel  to  hotel.  It  is  lucky  that  it 
has  caught  me  up  in  Egypt,  for  we  are  going  East  to 
visit  countries  where  the  postal  service  has  not  yet  been 
introduced.  We  leave  here  to-morrow.  If  your  letter 
had  been  a  day  later  it  would  have  missed  me ;  it  would 
have  remained  here  unclaimed — unless,  indeed,  we  come 
back  this  way,  which  is  not  likely.  You  see  what  a  near 
thing  it  was ;  and  as  I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  I  should 
be  sorry  not  to  have  had  an  opportunity  of  writing. 

"  Your  last  letter  has  put  many  thoughts  into  my 
head,  and  made  me  anxious  to  explain  many  things 

233 


THE  LAKE 

which  I  feel  sure  you  do  not  know  about  my  conduct 
since  I  left  London,  and  the  letters  I  have  written  to  you. 
Has  it  not  often  seemed  strange  to  you  that  we  go 
through  life  without  ever  being  able  to  reveal  the  soul 
that  is  in  us  ?  Is  it  because  we  are  ashamed,  or  is  it  that 
we  do  not  know  ourselves?  Certainly  it  is  a  very  hard 
task  to  learn  the  truth  about  ourselves,  and  I  appreciate 
the  courage  your  last  letter  shows;  you  have  faced  the 
truth,  and  having  learned  it,  you  write  it  to  me  in  all 
simplicity.  I  like  you  better  now,  Oliver  Gogarty,  than 
I  ever  did  before,  and  I  always  liked  you.  But  it  seems 
to  me  that  to  allow  you  to  confess  yourself  without  con- 
fessing myself,  without  revealing  the  woman's  soul 
in  me  as  you  have  revealed  the  man's  soul  in  yourself, 
would  be  unworthy.  Our  destinies  got  somehow  en- 
tangled, there  was  a  wrench,  the  knot  was  broken,  and  the 
thread  was  wound  upon  Another  spool.  The  unravel- 
ing of  the  piece  must  have  perplexed  you,  and  you  must 
have  wondered  why  the  shape  and  the  pattern  should 
have  passed  suddenly  away  into  thread  again,  and  then, 
after  a  lapse  of  time,  why  the  weaving  should  have 
begun  again. 

"  You  must  have  wondered  why  I  wrote  to  you,  and 
you  must  have  wondered  why  I  forgave  you  for  the 
wrong  you  did  me.  I  guessed  that  our  friendship  when 
I  was  in  the  parish  was  a  little  more  than  the  platonic 
friendship  that  you  thought  it  was,  so  when  you  turned 
against  me,  and  were  unkind,  I  found  an  excuse  for  you. 
When  my  hatred  was  bitterest,  I  knew  somehow,  at  the 
back  of  my  mind — for  I  only  allowed  myself  to  think  of 

234 


THE   LAKE 

it  occasionally — that  you  acted  from — there  is  but  one 
word — jealousy  (not  a  pretty  word  from  your  point  of 
view) ;  and  it  must  have  shocked  you,  as  a  man  and  as  a 
priest,  to  find  that  the  woman  whom  you  thought  so 
much  of,  and  whose  society  gave  you  so  much  pleasure 
(I  know  the  times  we  passed  together  were  as  pleasant 
to  you  as  they  were  to  me),  should  suddenly,  without 
warning,  appear  in  a  totally  different  light,  and  in  a  light 
which  must  have  seemed  to  you  mean  and  sordid.  The 
discovery  that  I  was  going  to  have  a  baby  threw  me  sud- 
denly down  from  the  pedestal  on  which  you  had  placed 
me ;  your  idol  was  broken,  and  your  feelings — for  you  are 
one  of  those  men  who  feel  deeply — got  the  better  of  you, 
and  you  indulged  in  a  few  incautious  words  in  your 
church. 

"  I  thought  of  these  things  sometimes,  not  often,  I 
admit,  in  the  little  London  lodging  where  I  lived  till  my 
baby  was  born,  seeing  my  gown  in  front  getting  shorter, 
and  telling  lies  to  good  Mrs.  Dent  about  the  husband 
whom  I  said  was  abroad,  whom  I  was  expecting  to 
return.  That  was  a  miserable  time,  but  we  won't  talk 
of  it  any  more.  When  Father  O'Grady  showed  me  the 
letter  that  you  wrote  him,  I  forgave  you  in  a  way.  A 
woman  forgives  a  man  the  wrongs  he  does  when  these 
wrongs  are  prompted  by  jealousy,  for,  after  all,  a  woman 
is  never  really  satisfied  if  a  man  is  not  a  little  jealous. 
His  jealousy  may  prove  inconvenient,  and  she  may  learn 
to  hate  it  and  think  it  an  ugly  thing  and  a  crooked  thing, 
but,  from  her  point  of  view,  love  would  not  be  complete 
without  it. 

235 


THE  LAKE 

"  I  smiled,  of  course,  when  I  got  your  letter  telling 
me  that  you  had  been  to  your  sisters  to  ask  them  if 
they  would  take  me  as  a  schoolmistress  in  the  convent, 
and  I  walked  about  smiling,  thinking  of  your  long  inno- 
cent drive  round  the  lake.  I  can  see  it  all,  dear  man  that 
you  are,  thinking  you  could  settle  everything,  and  that 
I  would  return  to  Ireland  to  teach  barefooted  little 
children  their  catechism  and  their  ABC.  How  often 
has  the  phrase  been  used  in  our  letters !  It  was  a  pretty 
idea  of  yours  to  go  to  your  sisters;  you  did  not  know 
then  that  you  cared  for  me — you  only  thought  of  atone- 
ment. I  suppose  we  must  always  be  deceived.  Mr.  Ellis 
says  self-deception  is  the  very  law  of  life.  We  live  en- 
veloped in  self-deception  as  in  a  film ;  now  and  again  the 
film  breaks  like  a  cloud  and  the  sun  shines  through.  It 
is  really  very  difficult  to  tell  the  truth,  Father  Gogarty; 
I  find  it  difficult  now  to  tell  you  why  I  wrote  all  these 
letters.  Because  I  liked  you  ?  Yes,  and  a  little  bit  because 
I  wished  you  to  suffer;  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  get 
nearer  the  truth  than  that.  But  when  I  asked  you  to  meet 
us  abroad,  I  did  so  in  good  faith,  for  you  are  a  clever 
man,  and  Mr.  Ellis's  studies  would  please  you.  At  the 
back  of  my  mind  I  suppose  I  thought  to  meet  him  would 
do  you  good;  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  he  might  redeem 
you  from  some  conventions  and  prejudices.  I  don't  like 
priests ;  the  priest  was  the  only  thing  about  you  I  never 
liked.  Was  it  in  some  vain,  proselytizing  idea  that  I  in- 
vited you?  Candidly,  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  think  I 
ever  shall;  there  is  much  that  we  don't  know,  not  only 
about  the  next  world,  but  even  about  this. 

236 


THE   LAKE 

"  I  said  in  one  of  my  letters  that  I  was  not  suited  to 
Ireland,  and  what  I  meant  by  that  was  that  this  world 
was  good  enough  for  me,  that  I  liked  to  live  in  a  world  of 
ideas  and  human  passions,  and  that  religion  did  not 
interest  me.  The  book  you  sent  me,  '  The  Imitation,'  I 
did  not  like  at  all,  and  I  wrote  to  tell  you  to  put  it  by,  to 
come  abroad  and  see  pictures  and  statues  in  a  beautiful 
country  where  people  do  not  drink  horrid  porter,  but 
nice  wine,  and  where  sacraments  are  left  to  the  old  people 
who  have  nothing  else  to  interest  them.  I  suppose  it  was 
a  cruel,  callous  letter,  but  I  did  not  mean  it  so ;  I  merely 
wanted  to  give  you  a  glimpse  of  my  new  life  and  my  new 
point  of  view.  As  for  this  letter,  Heaven  knows  how  you 
will  take  it — whether  you  will  hate  me  for  it  or  like  me ; 
but  since  you  wrote  quite  frankly  to  me,  confessing  your- 
self from  end  to  end,  I,  feel  bound  to  tell  you  everything 
I  know  about  myself — and  since  I  left  Ireland  I  have 
learned  a  great  deal  about  myself  and  about  life.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  gone  on  writing  to  you  if  Mr.  Ellis 
had  not  one  day  said  that  no  good  would  come  of  this 
long  correspondence ;  he  suspected  I  was  a  disturbing  in- 
fluence, and,  as  you  were  determined  to  live  in  Ireland, 
he  said  it  were  better  that  you  should  live  in  conven- 
tions and  prejudices;  without  them  your  life  would  be 
impossible. 

"  Then  came  your  last  letter,  and  it  showed  me  how 
right  Mr.  Ellis  was.  Nothing  remains  now  but  to  beg 
your  forgiveness  for  having  vainly  disturbed  your  life. 
The  disturbance  is,  perhaps,  only  a  passing  one.  You  may 
recover  your  ideas — the  ideas  that  are  necessary  to  you — 
16  237 


THE   LAKE 

or  you  may  go  on  discovering  the  truth,  and  in  the  end 
may  perhaps  find  a  way  whereby  you  may  leave  your 
parish  without  causing  scandal.  To  be  quite  truthful, 
that  is  what  I  hope  will  happen.  However  this  may  be, 
I  hope  if  we  ever  meet  again  it  will  not  be  till  you  have 
ceased  to  be  a  priest.  But  all  this  is  a  long  way  ahead. 
We  are  going  East,  and  shall  not  be  back  for  many 
months ;  we  are  going  to  visit  the  buried  cities  in  Turkes- 
tan. I  do  not  know  if  you  have  ever  heard  about  these 
cities.  They  were  buried  in  sand  somewhere  about 
a  thousand  years  ago,  and  some  parts  have  been  disin- 
terred lately.  Vaults  have  been  discovered,  and  were 
broken  into  in  search  of  treasure.  Gold  and  precious 
stones  were  discovered,  but  far  more  valuable  than  the 
gold  and  silver,  so  says  Mr.  Ellis,  are  certain  papyri  now 
being  deciphered  by  the  learned  professors  of  Berlin. 

"  You  know  the  name  of  Mr.  Ellis's  book,  *  The 
Source  of  the  Christian  River '  ?  He  had  not  suspected 
that  its  source  went  farther  back  than  Palestine,  but  now 
he  says  that  some  papyri  may  be  found  that  will  take  it 
far  back  into  Central  Asia. 

"  I  am  going  with  him  on  this  quest.  It  sounds  a 
little  absurd,  doesn't  it?  my  going  in  quest  of  the  Chris- 
tian river?  But  if  one  thinks  for  a  moment,  one  thing 
is  as  absurd  as  another.  Do  you  know,  I  find  it  difficult 
to  take  life  seriously,  and  I  walk  about  the  streets  think- 
ing of  you,  Father  Gogarty,  and  the  smile  that  will  come 
over  your  face,  half-angry,  half-pleased,  when  you  read 
that  your  schoolmistress  is  going  to  Central  Asia  in  quest 
of  the  Christian  river.  What  will  you  be  doing  all  this 

238 


THE  LAKE 

time?  You  say  that  you  cannot  leave  your  parish  be- 
cause you  fear  to  give  scandal ;  you  fear  to  pain  the  poor 
people,  who  have  been  good  to  you  and  who  have  given 
you  money,  and  your  scruple  is  a  noble  one ;  I  appreciate 
and  respect  it.  But  we  must  not  think  entirely  of  our 
duties  to  others;  we  must  think  of  our  duties  to  our- 
selves. Each  one  must  try  to  realize  himself — I  mean 
that  we  must  try  to  bring  the  gifts  that  Nature  gave  us 
to  fruition.  Nature  has  given  you  many  gifts:  I  won- 
der what  will  become  of  you? 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  ROSE  LEICESTER." 

"  Good  God,  how  I  love  that  woman ! "  the  priest 
said,  awaking  from  his  reverie,  for  the  clock  told  him 
that  he  had  sat  for  nearly  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
her  letter  in  his  hand,  after  having  read  it.  And  lying 
back  in  his  armchair,  his  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  window,  listening  to  the  birds  singing  in  the  vine 
— it  was  already  in  leaf,  and  the  shadows  of  the  leaves 
danced  across  the  carpet — he  sought  to  define  that  sense 
of  delight — he  could  find  no  other  words  for  it — which 
she  exhaled  unconsciously  as  a  flower  exhales  its  per- 
fume, that  joy  of  life  which  she  scattered  with  as  little 
premeditation  as  the  birds  scattered  their  songs.  But 
though  he  was  constantly  seeking  some  new  form  of  ex- 
pression of  her  charm,  he  always  came  back  to  the 
words  "  sense  of  delight."  Sometimes  he  added  that 
sense  of  delight  which  we  experience  when  we  go  out 
of  the  house  on  an  April  morning  and  find  everything 

239 


THE   LAKE 

growing  about  us,  the   sky  willful  and  blue,  and  the 
clouds  going  by,  saying,  "  Be  happy  as  we  are." 

She  was  so  different  from  every  other  woman.  All 
other  women  he  had  met  were  plain  instincts,  come 
into  the  world  for  the  accomplishment  of  things  that 
women  had  accomplished  for  thousands  of  years.  They 
were  no  more  than  animated  clay,  whereas  this  woman 
seemed  to  him  a  spirit.  That  she  had  been  the  mistress 
of  a  soldier  or  a  shepherd  in  his  parish,  that  she  was 
now  the  mistress  of  the  cultured  Mr.  Ellis,  did  not  seem 
to  materialize  her.  He  pondered,  trying  to  explain  to 
himself  how  this  might  be,  finding  only  this  explanation, 
that  materialism  is  not  fleshy  lust  but  conformity  to  a 
code.  Other  women  think  as  their  mothers  thought,  and 
as  their  daughters  will  think,  expressing  the  thoughts  of 
the  countless  generations  behind  and  in  front  of  them. 
But  this  woman  was  moved  merely  by  impulses ;  and  what 
is  more  inexplicable  than  an  impulse  ?  What  is  the  earth 
but  an  impulse?  This  woman  was  as  mysterious  as  the 
impulse  we  know  as  the  springtide.  She  was  as  mysteri- 
ous as  the  breath  of  spring;  she  was  the  springtide,  and 
henceforth  he  thought  of  her  as  Primeverae.  And  just 
as  the  sun  blinds  us  when  we  look  upon  it,  so  did  she 
blind  him.  Light  can  deprive  us  of  sight  as  well  as  dark- 
ness. In  no  other  way  could  he  explain  her.  She  was 
quite  clear  to  him,  though  he  could  not  find  words  to 
express  her  clearly.  She  had  once  said  to  him — she  had 
come  to  gather  flowers  for  the  altar;  he  was  talking  of 
the  music  she  had  played  that  afternoon,  of  her  singing, 
and  the  difference  it  made  to  him  to  have  one  who  could 

240 


THE   LAKE 

direct  the  music  in  his  church,  and  she  had  said — "  I  look 
upon  myself  as  your  amusement.  You  are  a  ruler  in  this 
parish;  you  direct  it,  you  administer  its  affairs,  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  parish  is  your  business,  and  I  am  the 
little  amusement  that  you  turn  to  when  your  business  is 
done."  He  had  not  known  how  to  answer  her.  In  this 
way  her  remarks  often  covered  him  with  confusion.  She 
just  thought  as  she  pleased,  and  spoke  as  she  pleased, 
and  he  returned  to  his  idea  that  she  was  more  than  anyone 
else  like  what  the  primitive  woman  must  have  been. 

Pondering  on  her  words  for  the  hundredth  time,  they 
seemed  to  him  stranger  than  ever.  That  any  human 
being  should  admit  that  she  was  but  the  delight  of  an- 
other's life  seemed  at  first  only  extraordinary,  but  if  one 
considered  her  words,  it  seemed  to  signify  knowledge — 
latent,  no  doubt — that  her  beauty  was  part  of  the  great 
agency.  Her  words  implied  that  she  was  aware  of  her 
mission.  She  had  not  spoken  herself,  it  was  her  un- 
conscious self  that  had  spoken,  and  it  was  that  very  fact 
that  had  given  significance  to  her  words. 

For  a  moment  he  escaped  from  the  tangle  of  his  own 
special  unhappiness,  and  believed  himself  to  be  on  the 
point  of  discovering  what  he  had  long  sought,  an  ex- 
planation of  this  woman's  charm ;  not  only  of  her  charm, 
but  of  herself  so  utterly — he  recurred  to  an  old  idea — so 
utterly  emancipated  from  all  human  obligations.  Was 
there  one  among  Shakespeare's  fantastic  half  women,  half 
spirits  who  reminded  him  most  of  Rose?  Was  she 
Miranda,  or  Puck,  or  Ariel?  Shakespeare  created  many 
of  these  creatures,  apparently  emancipated  from  reality, 

241 


THE   LAKE 


and  yet  expressing  a  great  deal  of  reality.  She  seemed 
to  him  to  go  back  to  an  earlier  time,  and  he  turned  to 
the  joyous  animality  of  woodland  antiquity,  feeling  sure 
there  must  be  some  pagan  myth  in  which  a  goddess  came 
down  to  earth  to  take  her  joy  among  men,  an  irresponsible 
being  obedient  to  no  human  laws. 

As  he  sat  looking  through  his  window  his  thoughts 
went  off  at  right  angles.  He  had  often  desired  a  foun- 
tain— a  garden  without  a  fountain  had  always  seemed  to 
him  incomplete — but  it  would  be  too  expensive  to  bring 
water  up  from  the  lake.  It  was  a  pity,  for  a  fountain 
amid  his  roses  would  be  a  refreshment  for  the  garden 
all  the  summer  time.  Now  it  occurred  to  him,  and  sud- 
denly, that  she  shed  light  upon  his  life,  just  as  a  fountain 
sheds  refreshment  upon  the  garden — she  was  like  a 
fountain !  A  fountain  was  the  only  simile  he  could  find 
that  conveyed  any  idea  of  this  extraordinary  woman,  con- 
trolled, no  doubt,  as  the  fountain,  by  some  law,  but  a 
law  hidden  from  him.  The  water  seemed  to  burst  up  as 
it  liked.  The  water  sang  a  tune  which  could  not  be 
caught  and  written  down  in  notes,  but  which  nevertheless 
existed.  The  water  was  full  of  iridescent  colors,  chang- 
ing every  moment.  The  fountain  was  the  best  simile  he 
could  find  for  that  joy  and  beauty  and  grace,  that  enchant- 
ment of  the  senses,  one  by  one,  which  he  had  known, 
which  had  appeared  to  him  in  the  name  of  Rose  Leicester. 

At  that  moment  Catherine  came  into  the  room. 
"  No,  not  now,"  he  said ;  and  he  went  into  the  garden 
and  through  the  wicket  at  the  other  end,  remembering 
how  he  had  gone  out  last  year  on  a  day  just  like  the 

242 


THE   LAKE 

present  day,  trying  to  keep  thoughts  of  her  out  of  his 
mind. 

The  day  was  the  fifteenth  of  May.  Last  year  the 
sky  was  low  and  full  of  cottonlike  clouds ;  the  lake  seemed 
to  doze  and  murmur  about  the  smooth  limestone  shingle. 
There  was  a  chatter  of  ducks  in  the  reeds ;  the  reeds  them- 
selves were  talking.  This  year  the  sky  was  brighter; 
there  was  more  blue  in  it,  the  clouds  lifted.  The  lake  was 
very  still;  there  was  less  mist  about.  Suddenly  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  it  was  this  day  last  year  that  he  had 
begun  to  grieve  about  her.  As  he  wandered  about  the 
shore,  sorrow  had  begun  to  lap  about  his  heart  like  soft 
lake  water.  He  had  thought  he  was  grieving  deeply, 
but  that  was  because  he  did  not  know  what  grief  was. 
Since  last  year  he  had  learned  all  that  a  man  could  know 
of  grief.  Last  year  he  was  able  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
spring,  to  watch  for  the  hawthorn  bloom;  this  year  he 
didn't  take  any  interest  in  them.  What  matter  whether 
they  bloomed  a  week  earlier  or  a  week  later  ?  As  a  matter 
of  fact  they  were  late.  The  frost  had  thrown  them 
back.  There  would  be  no  flowers  till  June.  Last  year 
he  had  admired -the  larches.  How  beautifully  the  tas- 
seled  branches  swayed,  throwing  shadows  on  the  long 
May  grass!  And  they  were  not  less  beautiful  this  year, 
though  they  were  less  interesting  to  him. 

He  wandered  through  the  woods,  over  the  country, 
noting  the  different  signs  of  spring,  for,  in  spite  of  his 
sorrow,  he  could  not  but  admire  the  slender  spring. 
He  could  not  tell  why,  but  he  always  associated  Rose 
with  the  gayety  of  the  springtime.  She  was  thin  like 

243 


THE   LAKE 

the  spring,  and  her  laughter  was  blithe  like  the 
spring.  She  seemed  to  him  like  a  spirit,  and  isn't  the 
spring  like  a  spirit?  He  recognized  her  in  the  cow 
parsley  just  coming  up,  and  the  sight  of  the  campions  be- 
tween the  white  spangles  reminded  him  of  the  pink 
flowers  she  wore  in  her  hat.  The  underwood  was  full  of 
bluebells,  and  he  thought  of  her  eyes.  The  aspens  on  the 
hillside  were  brown — the  aspen  was  gayer  and  less  cere- 
monial than  the  poplar — and  he  noticed  the  little  green 
and  yellow  leaves  of  the  willows,  and  he  came  to  a  place 
where  they  stood  all  a-row  in  front  of  a  stream,  like 
girls  courtesying. 

Seeing  a  bird  disappear  into  a  hole  in  the  wall,  he 
climbed  up.  The  bird  pecked  at  him,  for  she  was  hatch- 
ing. "  A  starling,"  he  said.  In  the  field  behind  his 
house,  under  the  old  hawthorn  tree,  an  amiable-looking 
donkey  had  given  birth  to  a  foal,  and  he  watched  the 
little  thing,  no  bigger  than  a  sheep,  covered  with  long 
gray  hair.  .  .  .  There  were  some  parishioners  he  would 
be  sorry  to  part  with,  and  there  was  Catherine.  If  he 
went  away  he  would  never  see  her  again,  nor  all  those 
who  lived  in  the  village.  All  this  present  reality  would 
fade,  his  old  church,  surrounded  with  gravestones  and 
stunted  Scotch  firs,  would  become  like  a  dream,  every 
year  losing  a  little  in  color  and  outline.  He  was  going, 
he  did  not  know  when,  but  he  was  going.  For  a  long 
time  the  feeling  had  been  gathering  in  him  that  he  was 
going,  and  the  letter  he  had  just  read  had  increased  that 
feeling.  He  would  go  just  as  soon  as  a  reputable  way 
of  leaving  his  parish  was  revealed  to  him. 

244 


THE   LAKE 

By  the  help  of  his  reason  he  could  not  hope  to  find 
out  the  way.  Nothing  seemed  more  impossible  than  that 
a  way  should  be  found  for  him  to  leave  his  parish  with- 
out giving  scandal;  but  however  impossible  things  may 
seem  to  us,  nothing  is  impossible  to  Nature.  He  must 
put  his  confidence  in  Nature ;  he  must  listen  to  her.  She 
would  tell  him.  And  he  lay  all  the  afternoon  listening 
to  the  reeds  and  the  ducks  talking  together  in  the  lake. 
Very  often  the  wood  was  like  a  harp;  a  breeze  touched 
the  strings,  and  every  now  and  then  the  murmur  seemed 
about  to  break  into  a  little  tune,  and  as  if  in  emulation,  or 
because  he  remembered  his  part  in  the  music,  a  black- 
bird, perched  near  to  his  mate,  whose  nest  was  in  the 
hawthorns  growing  out  of  the  tumbled  wall,  began  to 
sing  a  joyful  lay  in  a  rich  round  contralto,  soft  and  deep 
as  velvet.  "  All  nature,"  he  said,  "  is  talking  or  singing. 
This  is  talking  and  singing  time.  But  my  heart  can  speak 
to  no  one,  and  I  seek  places  where  no  one  will  come." 
And  he  began  to  wonder  if  he  prayed  he  might  die  God 
would  answer  his  prayer. 

The  sunlit  grass,  already  long  and  almost  ready  for 
the  scythe,  was  swept  by  shadows  of  the  larches,  those 
long,  downward-growing  boughs  hung  with  green  tas- 
sels, moving  mysteriously  above  him.  Birds  came  and 
went,  each  on  its  special  errand.  Never  was  Nature  more 
inveigling,  more  restful.  He  shut  his  eyes,  shapes  passed, 
dreams  filled  the  interspaces.  Little  thoughts  began. 
Why  had  he  never  brought  her  here?  A  memory  of  her 
walking  under  those  hawthorns  would  be  delightful.  The 
murmur  of  the  boughs  dissipated  his  dreams  or  changed 

245 


THE   LAKE 

them,  or  brought  new  ones;  his  consciousness  grew 
fainter,  and  he  could  not  remember  what  his  last  thoughts 
had  been  when  he  opened  his  eyes. 

And  then  he  wandered  out  of  the  wood,  into  the  sun- 
lit country,  along  the  dusty  road,  trying  to  take  an  interest 
in  everyone  whom  he  met.  It  was  fair  day,  and  he  met 
drovers  and  chatted  to  them  about  the  cattle,  and  he  heard 
a  wonderful  story  about  a  heifer  that  one  of  them  had  sold, 
and  that  found  her  way  back  home  again,  twenty-five 
miles.  ...  A  little  farther  on  a  man  came  across  the 
fields  toward  him,  with  a  sheep  dog  at  his  heels,  a  beauti- 
ful bitch  who  showed  her  teeth  so  prettily  when  she  was 
spoken  to ;  she  had  long  gold  hair,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  she  liked  to  be  admired. 

"  They're  all  alike,  the  feminine  sex,"  the  priest 
thought.  "  She's  as  pretty  as  Rose,  and  acts  very  much 
the  same." 

And  he  trudged  on  again,  amused  by  the  playful  sun- 
light dancing  in  and  out  of  the  underwoods.  He  heard 
many  stories.  One  was  about  a  poacher  wrjo  hadn't 
slept  in  a  bed  for  years ;  who  lived  out  in  the  heather  and 
in  the  woods,  and  trapped  rabbits,  and  beat  people  when 
he  met  them.  Sometimes  he  enticed  them  far  away,  and 
then  turned  upon  them  savagely.  He  came  upon  a  cart 
filled  with  pigs  which  had  broken  down,  and  the  pigs 
escaped  in  all  directions  into  a  young  plantation,  and  the 
efforts  of  a  great  number  of  country  people  were  directed 
to  collecting  them.  Father  Oliver  helped  in  the  chase, 
and  at  last  he  saw  them  driven  along  the  road,  for  it 
had  been  found  impossible  to  mend  the  cart. 

246 


THE   LAKE 

But  the  moment  came  for  him  to  return  home.  He 
thought  he  would  never  return  at  all  if  he  had  had  any 
money  in  his  pocket;  for  a  wandering  mood  was  upon 
him,  and  he  might  have  just  wandered  out  of  the  parish. 
And  he  imagined  that  that  would  be  how  Father  Moran 
would  leave  the  parish — he  would  just  go  on  walking 
without  worrying  himself  with  vexatious  questions. 

The  sun  was  sinking  when  he  found  himself  back  in 
the  woods  again ;  they  were  silent  now — only  the  cuckoo 
was  heard,  and  the  familiar  cry  sounded  pleasantly  from 
hill  to  hill.  The  evening  was  beautiful,  more  beautiful 
than  any  picture,  and  so  quiet  that  he  thought  of  some 
great  cathedral  nave;  but  it  was  far  more  beautiful  than 
that,  for  a  nave  is  filled  with  twilight  and  incense,  whereas 
this  evening  was  bright  and  pure.  The  earth  was  warm 
and  green  and  full  of  the  love  of  the  springtime,  with 
nests  in  every  bough,  and  flowers  growing — bluebells  and 
campions  and  cow  parsley ;  and  he  admired  these  flowers 
more  than  he  had  admired  them  in  the  morning.  Nor 
had  the  mountains  ever  seemed  so  beautiful  as  they 
seemed  now ;  he  could  follow  every  crest  and  valley.  Half 
the  beauty  of  these  mountains  lay  in  the  fact  that  they 
were  turned  hither  and  thither,  and  not  seen  in  profile. 

In  the  sky  a  lake  was  forming,  the  very  image  and 
likeness  to  the  lake  under  the  hill.  One  glittered  like 
silver,  the  other  like  gold,  and  so  wonderful  was  this 
celestial  lake  that  he  began  to  think  of  immortals,  of  an 
assembly  of  goddesses  waiting  for  their  gods,  or  a  god- 
dess waiting  on  an  island  for  some  mortal,  sending  bird 

247 


THE   LAKE 


messengers  to  him.  A  sort  of  pagan  enchantment  was 
put  upon  him,  and  he  rose  up  from  the  ferns  to  see  an 
evening  as  fair  as  Rose  and  as  fragrant.  He  tried  to 
think  of  the  color  of  her  eyes,  which  were  fervid  and 
oracular,  and  of  her  hands,  which  were  long  and  sweet 
and  curved,  and  of  her  breath,  which  was  fragrant.  The 
evening  was  like  her,  as  subtle  and  as  persuasive,  and  the 
sensation  of  her  presence  was  so  clear  that  he  shut  his 
eyes,  feeling  her  about  him — as  near  to  him  as  if  she 
lay  in  his  arms,  just  as  he  had  felt  her  that  night  in 
the  wood,  only  then  she  was  colder  and  more  remote. 
He  walked  along  the  shore  feeling  like  an  instrument  that 
had  been  tuned.  His  perception  seemed  to  have  been 
indefinitely  increased,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were 
in  communion  with  the  stones  in  the  earth  and  the 
clouds  in  heaven;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  past  and 
the  future  had  become  one. 

The  moment  was  one  of  extraordinary  sweetness; 
never  might  such  a  moment  happen  in  his  life  again. 
The  earth  and  sky  were  enfolding  in  one  tender  har- 
mony of  rose  and  blue,  the  blue  shading  down  to  gray, 
and  the  lake  floated  amid  vague  shores,  vaguely  as  a 
dream  floats  through  sleep.  The  swallows  were  flying 
high,  quivering  overhead  in  the  blue  air.  There  was  a 
sense  of  security  and  persuasion  and  loveliness  in  the 
evening. 


248 


XV 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,   BOHOLA, 

"  May  18,  19 — . 

THOUGHTS  are  rising  up  in  my  mind,  and  I 
am  eager  to  write  them  down  quickly,  and 
with  as  little  consideration  as  possible.  Per- 
haps my  thoughts  will  seem  trivial  when  I  have  written 
them,  but  the  emotion  that  inspired  them  was  very  won- 
derful and  overpowering.  I  am,  as  it  were,  propelled  to 
my  writing  table.  I  must  write:  my  emotion  must  find 
expression.  Even  if  I  were  sure  you  would  not  get  this 
letter  for  months,  I  should  write  it.  I  believe  if  I  knew 
you  would  never  get  it  I  should  write.  But  if  I  send 
it  to  Ethelstone  Manor  it  will  be  forwarded,  I  suppose, 
for  you  will  not  remain  whole  months  without  hearing 
from  Europe.  ...  In  any  case,  you  will  get  this  letter 
on  your  return,  and  it  will  ease  my  heart  to  write  it. 
Above  all  things,  I  would  have  you  know  that  the  re- 
port that  I  was  drowned  while  bathing  is  not  true.  A 
report  to  this  effect  will  certainly  find  its  way  into  the 
local  papers,  and  in  these  days,  once  a  piece  of  news  gets 
reported,  it  flies  along  from  newspaper  to  newspaper, 
and  newspapers  have  a  knack  of  straying  into  our  hands 
when  they  contain  a  disagreeable  item  of  news. 

249 


THE  LAKE 

"  You  will  remember  how  the  interview  with  Mr. 
Ellis,  published  in  Illustrated  England,  came  into  my 
hands.  That  number  was  the  first  of  Illustrated  England 
I  had  seen.  My  curate  brought  it  here  and  left  it  upon 
the  table,  and  only  the  fate  that  is  over  us  knows  why. 
In  the  same  way,  a  paper  containing  a  report  of  my  sup- 
posed drowning  may  reach  you  when  you  return  to  Eng- 
land, and,  as  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  that  I  have 
gone  out  of  this  life,  I  am  writing  to  tell  you  that  the 
report  of  my  death  is  untrue,  or,  to  speak  more  exactly, 
it  will  not  be  true,  if  my  arms  and  legs  can  make  it  a 
false  report.  These  lines  will  set  you  wondering  if  I 
have  taken  leave  of  my  senses.  Read  on,  and  my  sanity 
will  become  manifest.  Some  day  next  month  I  intend 
to  swim  across  the  lake,  and  you  will,  I  think,  appreciate 
this  adventure.  You  praised  my  decision  not  to  leave 
my  parish  because  of  the  pain  it  would  give  the  poor 
people.  You  said  that  you  liked  me  better  for  it,  and 
it  is  just  because  my  resolve  has  not  wavered  that  I 
have  decided  to  swim  across  the  lake.  Only  in  this  way 
can  I  quit  my  parish  without  leaving  a  scandalous  name 
behind  me.  Moreover,  the  means  whereby  I  was  en- 
lightened are  so  strange  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  believe 
that  Providence  is  not  on  my  side. 

"  Have  not  men  always  believed  in  bird  augury  from 
the  beginning  of  time?  and  have  not  prognostications  a 
knack  of  coming  true?  I  feel  sure  that  you  would  think 
as  I  do  if  what  had  happened  to  me  had  happened  to 
you.  Yet  when  you  read  this  letter  you  will  say,  '  No 
sooner  has  he  disentangled  himself  from  one  superstition 

250 


THE   LAKE 

than  he  drops  into  another ! '  However  this  may  be,  I 
cannot  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  this  strangely  ill-fated 
bird  that  came  out  of  the  wood  last  February  was  sent 
for  a  purpose.  But  I  have  not  told  you  about  that  bird. 
In  my  last  letter  my  mind  was  occupied  by  other  things, 
and  there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  have  mentioned  it, 
for  it  seemed  at  the  time  merely  a  curious  accident — no 
more  curious  than  the  hundred  and  one  accidents  that 
happen  every  day.  I  believe  these  things  are  called  coinci- 
dences. But  to  the  story.  The  day  I  went  out  skating 
there  was  a  shooting  party  in  Derrinrush,  and  at  the 
close  of  day,  in  the  dusk,  a  bird  got  up  from  the  sedge, 
and  one  of  the  shooters,  mistaking  it  for  a  woodcock, 
fired,  wounding  the  bird. 

"  We  watched  it  till  we  saw  it  fall  on  the  shore  of 
Castle  Island,  and,  thinking  that  it  would  linger  there  for 
days,  dying  by  inches,  I  started  off  with  the  intention  of 
putting  it  out  of  its  misery.  The  bird  I  found  on  the 
rocks  was  but  a  heap  of  skin  and  feathers,  and  no  won- 
der, for  its  legs  were  firmly  tied  together  with  a  piece 
of  stout  string,  twisted  and  tied  so  that  it  would  last 
for  years.  There  was  no  possibility  of  the  bird  getting 
free  from  its  fetter.  Who  had  ever  heard  of  a  curlew 
with  its  legs  tied  together?  From  long  pondering 
whether  it  was  a  tame  bird  that  had  escaped  from  cap- 
tivity, or  whether  it  had  fallen  into  a  fowler's  net  and 
been  let  loose  after  its  legs  had  been  tied  together  from 
sheer  love  of  cruelty,  this  strangely  fated  curlew  came 
to  occupy  a  sort  of  symbolic  relation  toward  my  past  and 
my  future  life,  and  it  was  in  thinking  of  it  that  the  idea 


THE   LAKE 

occurred  to  me  that,  if  I  could  cross  the  lake  on  the 
ice,  I  might  swim  it  in  the  summer  time  when  the  weather 
was  warm,  having,  of  course,  hidden  a  bundle  of  clothes 
amid  the  rocks  on  the  Joycetown  side.  My  clerical 
clothes  will  be  found  on  this  side,  and  the  assumption  will 
be,  of  course,  that  I  swam  out  too  far. 

"  This  way  of  escape  seemed  at  first  fantastic  and 
unreal,  but  it  has  come  to  seem  to  me  the  only  practical 
way  out  of  my  difficulty.  In  no  other  way  can  I  leave  the 
parish  without  giving  pain  to  the  poor  people,  who  have 
been  very  good  to  me.  And  you,  who  appreciated  my 
scruples  on  this  point,  will,  I  am  sure,  understand  the 
great  pain  it  would  give  my  sisters  if  I  were  to  leave  the 
Church.  It  would  give  them  so  much  pain  that  I  shrink 
from  trying  to  imagine  what  it  would  be.  They  would 
look  upon  themselves  as  disgraced,  and  they  would  think 
that  I  had  disgraced  the  whole  family.  My  disappear- 
ance from  the  parish  would  even  do  them  harm — Eliza's 
school  would  suffer.  This  may  seem  an  exaggera- 
tion, but  certainly  Eliza  would  never  quite  get  over  it. 
If  this  way  of  escape  had  not  been  revealed  to  me,  I  don't 
think  I  ever  should  have  found  courage  to  leave,  and  if 
I  didn't  leave  I  should  die.  Life  is  so  ordered  that  a 
trace  remains  of  every  act,  but  the  trace  is  not  always 
discovered,  and  I  trust  you  implicitly.  You  will  never 
show  this  letter  to  anyone ;  you  will  never  tell  anyone. 

"  The  Church  would  allow  me,  no  doubt,  to  pick  up 
a  living  as  best  I  could,  and  would  not  interfere  with  me 
till  I  said  something  or  wrote  something  that  the  Church 
thought  would  lessen  its  power;  then  the  cry  of  un- 

252 


THE   LAKE 

frocked  priest  would  be  raised  against  me,  and  calumny, 
the  great  ecclesiastical  weapon,  would  be  used.  I  do  not 
know  what  my  future  life  will  be:  my  past  has  been  so 
beset  with  misfortune  that,  once  I  get  on  the  other  side, 
I  shall  never  look  back.  I  cannot  find  words  to  tell  you 
of  the  impatience  with  which  I  wait  the  summer  time,  the 
fifteenth  of  July,  when  the  moon  will  be  full.  I  cannot 
think  what  would  have  happened  to  me  if  I  had  stayed 
at  home  the  afternoon  that  the  curlew  was  shot;  some- 
thing would  have  happened,  for  we  cannot  go  on  always 
sacrificing  ourselves.  We  can  sacrifice  ourselves  for  a 
time,  but  we  cannot  sacrifice  ourselves  all  our  life  long, 
unless  we  begin  to  take  pleasure  in  the  immolation  of  self, 
and  then  it  is  no  longer  sacrifice.  Something  must  have 
happened,  or  I  should  have  gone  mad. 

"  I  had  suffered  so  much  in  the  parish.  I  think  the 
places  in  which  we  have  suffered  become  distasteful  to 
us,  and  the  instinct  to  wander  takes  us.  A  migratory  bird 
goes,  or  dies  of  homesickness ;  home  is  not  always  where 
we  are  born — it  is  among  ideas  that  are  dear  to  us :  and 
it  is  exile  to  live  among  people  who  do  not  share  our 
ideas.  Something  must  have  happened  to  me.  I  can 
think  of  nothing  except  suicide  or  what  did  happen,  for  I 
could  never  have  made  up  my  mind  to  give  pain  to  the 
poor  people  and  to  leave  a  scandalous  name  behind ;  still 
less  could  I  continue  to  administer  sacraments  that  I  had 
ceased  to  believe  in.  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  shame- 
ful than  the  life  of  a  man  who  continues  his  administra- 
tions after  he  has  ceased  to  believe  in  them,  especially 
a  Catholic  priest,  so  precise  and  explicit  are  the  Roman 
17  253 


THE  LAKE 

sacraments.  A  very  abject  life  it  is  to  murmur  '  Absolve 
te '  over  the  heads  of  parishioners,  and  to  place  wafers 
on  their  tongues,  when  we  have  ceased  to  believe  that 
we  have  power  to  forgive  sins  and  to  turn  bread  into 
God.  A  layman  may  have  doubts,  and  continue  to  live 
his  life  as  before,  without  troubling  to  take  the  world 
into  his  confidence,  but  a  priest  may  not  do  so.  The 
money  an  unbelieving  priest  receives,  if  he  be  not  in- 
conceivably hardened  in  sin,  must  be  hateful  to  him,  and 
his  conscience  can  leave  him  no  rest. 

"  At  first  I  used  to  suspect  my  conversion.  It  seemed 
to  me  unseemly  that  a  man  should  cease  to  believe  that  we 
must  renounce  this  life  in  order  to  gain  another,  without 
much  preliminary  study  of  the  Scriptures,  and  I  began  to 
look  upon  myself  as  a  somewhat  superficial  person  whose 
religious  beliefs  had  yielded  before  the  charm  of  a  pretty 
face  and  winsome  personality.  But  this  view  of  the  ques- 
tion no  longer  seems  superficial.  The  very  contrary  seems 
true.  And  the  superficial  ones  are  those  who  think  that 
it  is  only  in  the  Scriptures  that  we  may  discover  whether 
we  have  a  right  to  live.  Our  belief  in  books  rather  than 
in  Nature  is  one  of  humanity's  most  curious  character- 
istics, and  a  very  irreligious  one,  it  seems  to  me ;  and  I 
am  glad  to  think  that  it  was  your  sunny  face  that  raised 
up  my  crushed  instincts,  that  brought  me  back  to  life, 
and  ever  since  you  have  been  associated  in  my  mind  with 
the  sun  and  the  springtide. 

"  One  day  in  the  beginning  of  March,  coming  back 
from  a  long  walk  on  the  hills,  I  heard  the  bleat  of  the 
lamb  and  the  impatient  cawing  of  the  rook  that  could 

254 


THE   LAKE 

not  get  its  nest  to  hold  together  in  the  windy  branches, 
and  as  I  stopped  to  listen  it  seemed  to  me  that  some- 
thing passed  by  in  the  dusk :  the  springtide  itself  seemed 
to  be  fleeting  across  the  tillage  toward  the  scant  fields. 
As  the  springtide  advanced  I  discovered  a  new  likeness 
to  you  in  the  daffodil ;  it  is  so  shapely  a  flower.  I  should 
be  puzzled  to  give  a  reason,  but  it  reminds  me  of  an- 
tiquity, and  you  were  always  a  thing  divorced  from  the 
Christian  ideal.  While  mourning  you,  my  poor  instincts 
discovered  you  in  the  wind-shaken  trees,  and  in  the  gayety 
of  the  sun,  and  the  flowers  that  May  gives  us.  ...  I 
shall  be  gone  at  the  end  of  July,  when  the  carnations  are 
in  bloom,  but  were  I  here  I  am  sure  many  of  them  would 
remind  me  of  you.  There  have  been  saints  who  have 
loved  Nature,  but  I  always  wondered  how  it  was  so,  for 
Nature  is  like  a  woman.  I  might  have  read  the  Scrip- 
tures again  and  again,  and  all  the  arguments  that  Mr. 
Ellis  can  put  forward,  without  my  faith  having  been 
shaken  in  the  least.  When  the  brain  alone  thinks,  the 
thinking  is  very  thin  and  impoverished.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  best  thinking  is  done  when  the  whole  man  thinks, 
the  flesh  and  the  brain  together,  and  for  the  whole  man  to 
think  the  whole  man  must  live ;  and  the  life  I  have  lived 
hitherto  has  been  a  thin  life,  for  only  my  body  lived. 
And  not  even  all  my  body.  My  mind  and  body  had 
been  separated;  neither  were  of  any  use  to  me.  I  owe 
everything  to  you.  My  case  cannot  be  defined  merely  as 
that  of  a  priest  who  gave  up  his  religion  because  a 
pretty  woman  came  by.  He  who  says  that  does  not  try 
to  understand ;  he  merely  contents  himself  with  uttering 

255 


THE   LAKE 

facile  commonplace.  What  he  has  to  learn  is  the  great 
oneness  in  Nature.  There  is  but  one  element,  and  we 
but  one  of  its  many  manifestations.  If  this  were  not  so, 
why  should  your  whiteness  and  color  and  gayety  remind 
me  always  of  the  springtime? 

"  My  pen  is  running  fast,  I  hardly  know  what  I  am 
writing,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  beginning  to  see 
much  clearer.  The  mists  are  dissolving,  and  life  emerges 
like  the  world  at  daybreak.  I  am  thinking  now  of  an 
old,  decrepit  house  with  sagging  roof  and  lichen-covered 
walls,  and  all  the  doors  and  windows  nailed  up.  Every 
generation  nailed  up  a  door  or  a  window  till  all  were 
nailed  up.  In  the  dusty  twilight  creatures  wilt  and  pray. 
About  the  house  the  doleful  sound  of  shutters  creaking 
on  rusty  hinges  never  ceases.  Your  hand  touched  one, 
it  fell,  and  I  found  myself  looking  upon  the  splendid  sun 
shining  on  hills  and  fields,  wooded  prospects  with  rivers 
winding  through  the  great  green  expanses.  At  first  I 
dared  not  look,  and  withdrew  into  the  shadow  trem- 
blingly; but  the  light  drew  me  forth  again,  and  now  I 
look  upon  the  world  without  fear.  I  am  going  to  leave 
that  decrepit,  dusty  house  and  mix  with  my  fellows,  and 
maybe  blow  a  horn  on  the  hillside  to  call  comrades  to- 
gether. My  hands  and  eyes  are  eager  to  know  what  I 
have  become  possessed  of.  I  owe  to  you  my  liberation 
from  prejudices  and  conventions.  Ideas  are  passed  on. 
We  learn  more  from  each  other  than  from  books.  I 
was  unconsciously  affected  by  your,  example.  You  dared 
to  stretch  out  both  hands  to  life  and  grasp  it;  you  ac- 
cepted the  spontaneous  natural  living  wisdom  of  your 

256 


THE   LAKE 

instincts  when  I  was  rolled  up  like  a  dormouse  in  the 
dead  wisdom  of  codes  and  formulas,  dogmas  and  opin- 
ions. I  never  told  you  how  I  became  a  priest.  I  did 
not  know  until  quite  lately.  I  think  I  began  to  sus- 
pect my  vocation  when  you  left  the  parish. 

"  I  remember  walking  along  the  lake  just  this  time 
last  year,  and  the  story  of  my  life  was  singing  in  my 
head,  and  you  were  in  the  background  of  it  all,  beat- 
ing the  time.  You  know,  we  had  a  shop  in  Tinnick, 
and  I  had  seen  my  father  standing  before  a  high  desk 
by  a  dusty  window  year  after  year,  selling  half-pounds 
of  tea,  and  hanks  of  onions,  and  farm  implements,  and 
if  I  had  married  my  cousin  Annie  McGrath  our  lives 
would  have  reproduced  those  of  my  father  and  mother 
in  every  detail,  and  I  felt  I  really  could  not  undertake 
the  job.  For  a  long  time  I  did  not  know  why;  I  was 
pious,  but  I  can  see  now  that  it  was  not  my  piety  that 
sent  me  to  Maynooth,  but  a  certain  spirit  of  adventure, 
a  dislike  of  the  commonplace,  of  the  prosaic — that  is  to 
say,  of  the  repetition  of  the  same  things.  I  was  in- 
terested in  myself,  in  my  own  soul,  and  I  did  not  want 
to  accept  something  that  was  outside  of  myself,  such  as 
the  life  of  a  shopman  behind  a  counter,  or  that  of  a 
clerk  of  the  petty  sessions,  or  the  habit  of  a  policeman. 
These  were  the  careers  that  were  open  to  me,  and  when 
I  was  hesitating,  wondering  if  I  should  be  able  to  buy  up 
the  old  mills  and  revive  the  trade  in  Tinnick,  my  sister 
Eliza  reminded  me  that  there  had  always  been  a  priest 
in  the  family.  And  the  priesthood  seemed  to  offer  op- 
portunities of  realizing  myself,  of  preserving  the  spirit 

257 


THE   LAKE 

within  me.  In  this  I  was  mistaken;  it  offered  no  such 
opportunities  to  me.  I  might  as  well  have  become  a 
policeman.  .  .  .  Everyone  must  try  to  cling  to  his  own 
soul,  to  cherish  what  is  inly.  And  that  is  the  only  law, 
the  only  binding  law  I  can  believe  in.  If  we  are  here 
for  anything,  it  is  surely  for  that. 

"  But  one  does  not  free  one's  self  from  habits  and 
ideas,  that  have  grown  almost  inveterate,  without  much 
pain  and  struggle ;  one  falls  back  many  times,  and  there 
are  always  good  reasons  for  following  the  rut.  We  be- 
lieve that  the  worn  way  leads  us  somewhere;  in  reality 
it  leads  us  nowhere,  the  worn  way  is  only  a  seeming;  the 
mysterious  lights  of  instincts  are  alone  worth  following, 
implicated  though  they  be  and  zigzag. .  You  say  in  your 
letter  that  our  destinies  got  entangled,  and  the  piece  that 
was  being  woven  ran  out  into  thread,  and  was  rewound 
upon  another  spool.  It  seemed  to  you  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  there  was  no  pattern;  we  think  there  is  none 
because  Nature's  pattern  is  undistinguishable  to  our 
eyes,  her  looms  are  so  vast,  but  sometimes  even  our  little 
sight  can  follow  a  design  here  and  there.  And  does  it 
not  seem  to  you  that,  after  all,  there  was  some  design  in 
what  has  happened?  You  came  and  released  me  from 
conventions,  just  as  the  spring  releases  the  world  from 
winter  rust. 

"  A  strange  idea  has  come  into  my  mind,  and  I  can- 
not help  smiling  at  the  topsy-turvydom  of  Nature,  or  what 
seems  to  be  topsy-turvydom.  You,  who  began  by  living 
in  your  instincts,  are  now  wandering  beyond  Palestine  in 
search  of  scrolls ;  and  I,  who  began  my  life  in  scrolls,  am 

258 


THE   LAKE 

now  going  to  try  to  pick  up  the  lost  thread  of  my  in- 
stincts in  some  great  commercial  town,  in  London  or  New 
York.  My  life  for  a  long  time  will  be  that  of  some  poor 
clerk  or  some  hack  journalist,  picking  up  thirty  shillings 
a  week  when  he  is  in  luck.  I  imagine  myself  in  a  thread- 
bare suit  of  clothes  edging  my  way  along  the  pavement, 
nearing  a  great  building,  and  making  my  way  to  my 
desk,  and,  when  the  day's  work  is  done,  returning  home 
along  the  same  pavement  to  a  room  high  up  among  the 
rafters,  close  to  the  sky,  in  some  cheap  quarter. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  my  ability  to  pick  up  a  living — it 
will  be  a  shameful  thing  indeed  if  I  cannot ;  for  the  poor 
curlew  with  its  legs  tied  together  managed  to  live  some- 
how, and  cannot  I  do  as  much?  And  I  have  taken  care 
that  no  fetters  shall  be  placed  upon  my  legs  or  chain 
about  my  neck.  Anything  may  happen — life  is  full  of 
possibilities — but  my  first  concern  must  be  how  I  may 
earn  my  living.  To  earn  one's  living  is  an  obligation 
that  can  only  be  dispensed  with  at  one's  own  great  risk. 
What  may  happen  afterwards  Heaven  knows!  I  may 
meet  you,  or  I  may  meet  another  woman,  or  I  may  re- 
main unmarried.  "  I  do  not  intend  to  allow  myself  to 
think  of  these  things ;  my  thoughts  are  set  on  one  thing 
only — how  to  get  to  New  York,  and  how  I  shall  pick 
up  a  living  when  I  get  there.  Again  I  thank  you  for 
what  you  have  done  for  me,  for  the  liberation  you  have 
brought  me  of  body  and  mind.  I  need  not  have  added 
the  words  '  body  and  mind/  for  these  are  not  two  things, 
but  one  thing.  And  that  is  the  lesson  I  have  learned. 
Good-by.  OLIVER  GOGARTY." 

259 


XVI 

IT  would  be  a  full  moon  on  the  fifteenth  of  July,  and 
every  night  he  went  out  on  the  hillside  to  watch 
the  horned  moon  swelling  to  a  disk. 

And  on  the  fifteenth,  the  day  he  had  settled  for  his 
departure,  as  he  sat  thinking  how  he  would  go  down 
to  the  lake  in  a  few  hours,  he  remembered  the  last  let- 
ter he  had  written  to  her.  As  well  as  he  could  re- 
member, he  had  written  her  a  foolish,  vainglorious  letter 
— a  stupid  letter  that  made  him  appear  like  a  fool  in  her 
eyes.  Had  he  not  said  something  about —  The  thought 
eluded  him;  he  could  only  remember  the  general  tone 
of  his  letter,  and  in  it  seemed  to  consider  Rose  as  a 
sort  of  medicine — a  cure  for  religion. 

He  should  have  written  her  a  simple  little  letter, 
telling  her  that  he  was  leaving  Ireland  because  he  had 
suffered  a  great  deal,  and  would  write  to  her  from  New 
York,  whereas  he  had  written  her  the  letter  of  a  booby. 
And  feeling  he  must  do  something  to  rectify  his  mistake, 
he  went  to  his  writing  table,  but  he  had  hardly  put  the 
pen  to  the  paper  when  he  heard  a  step  on  the  gravel  out- 
side his  door. 

"  Father  Moran,  your  reverence." 

"  I  see  that  I'm  interrupting  you.    You're  writing." 

"  No,  I  assure  you." 

260 


THE   LAKE 


"  But  you've  got  a  pen  in  your  hand." 

"  It  can  wait — a  matter  of  no  importance.    Sit  down." 

"  Now,  you'll  tell  me  if  I'm  in  the  way  ?  " 

"  My  good  man,  why  are  you  talking  like  that?  Why 
should  you  be  in  the  way  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you're  sure  you've  nothing  to  do,  may  I 
stay  to  supper  ?  " 

"To  supper?" 

"  But  I  see  that  I'm  in  the  way." 

"  No ;  I  tell  you  you're  not  in  the  way.  And  you're 
going  to  stay  to  supper." 

Father  Oliver  flung  himself  between  Father  Moran 
and  the  door;  Father  Moran  allowed  himself  to  be  led 
back  to  the  armchair.  Father  Oliver  took  the  chair  op- 
posite him,  for  he  couldn't  send  Moran  away ;  he  mustn't 
do  anything  that  would  give  rise  to  suspicion. 

"  You're  quite  sure  I'm  not  in  the  way — I'm  not  in- 
terfering with  any  plans  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.    I'm  glad  you  have  come  this  evening." 

"  Are  you?  ...  Well,  I  had  to  come." 

"  You  had  to  come !  " 

"  Yes,  I  had  to  come ;  I  had  to  come  to  see  if  anything 
had  happened.  You  needn't  look  at  me  like  that;  I 
haven't  been  drinking,  and  I  haven't  gone  out  of  my 
mind.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  had  to  come  to  see 
you  this  evening." 

"  And  you  don't  know  why  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't ;  I  can't  tell  you  exactly  why  I've  come. 
As  I  was  reading  my  breviary,  walking  up  and  down  the 
road  in  front  of  the  house,  I  felt  that  I  must  see  you. 

261 


THE  LAKE 

I  never  felt  anything  like  it  in  my  life  before.     I  had 
to  come." 

"  And  you  didn't  expect  to  find  me  ?  " 
"  Well,  I  didn't.    How  did  you  guess  that?  " 
"You'd  have  hardly  come  all  that  way  to  find  me 
sitting  here  in  this  armchair." 

"  That's  right.  It  wasn't  sitting  in  that  chair  I  ex- 
pected to  see  you;  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  at  all — at 
least,  I  don't  think  I  did.  You  see,  it  was  all  very  queer, 
for  it  was  as  if  somebody  had  got  me  by  the  shoulders. 
It  was  as  if  I  were  being  pushed  every  yard  of  the  road. 
Something  was  running  in  my  mind  that  I  shouldn't  see 
you  again,  or  if  I  did  see  you  that  it  would  be  for  the 
last  time.  You  seemed  to  me  as  if  you  were  going  away 
on  a  long  journey." 

"  Was  it  dying  or  dead  you  saw  me  ?  " 
"  That  I  can't  say.  If  I  said  any  more  I  shouldn't  be 
telling  the  truth.  No,  it  wasn't  the  same  feeling  when 
I  came  to  tell  you  I  couldn't  put  up  with  the  loneliness 
any  more — the  night  I  came  here  roaring  for  drink.  I 
was  thinking  of  myself  then,  and  that  you  might  save  me 
or  do  something  for  me — give  me  drink  or  cure  me.  I 
don't  know  which  thought  it  was  that  was  running  in 
my  head,  but  I  had  to  come  to  you  all  the  same,  just 
as  I  had  to  come  to  you  to-day.  I  say  it  was  different, 
because  then  I  was  on  my  own  business ;  but  this  time  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  on  yours.  One  good  turn  de- 
serves another,  as  they  say;  and  something  was  beating 
in  my  head  that  I  could  help  you,  serve  as  a  stay;  so 
I  had  to  come.  Where  should  I  be  now  if  it  were  not  for 

262 


THE   LAKE 

you?  I  can  see  you're  thinking  that  it  was  only  non- 
sense that  was  running  in  my  head,  but  you  won't  be 
saying  it  was  nonsense  that  brought  me  the  night  I  came 
like  a  madman  roaring  for  drink.  If  there  was  a  miracle 
that  night,  why  shouldn't  there  be  a  miracle  to-night? 
And  if  a  miracle  ever  happened  in  the  world,  it  hap- 
pened that  night,  I'm  thinking.  Do  you  remember  the 
dark-gray  clouds  tearing  across  the  sky,  and  we  walk- 
ing side  by  side,  I  trying  to  get  away  from  you  ?  I  was 
that  mad  that  I  might  have  thrown  you  into  the  bog 
hole  if  the  craving  had  not  passed  from  me.  And  it  was 
just  lifted  from  me  as  one  might  take  the  cap  off  one's 
head.  You  remember  the  prayer  we  said,  leaning  over 
the  bit  of  wall  looking  across  the  bog?  There  was  no 
lonesomeness  that  night  coming  home,  Gogarty,  though 
a  curlew  might  have  felt  a  bit." 

"  A  curlew !  " 

"  Well,  there  were  curlews  and  plovers  about,  and 
a  starving  ass  picking  grass  between  the  road  and  the  bog 
hole.  That  night  will  be  ever  in  my  mind.  Where  would 
I  be  now  if  it  hadn't  been  that  you  kept  on  with  me  and 
brought  me  back,  cured?  It  wouldn't  be  a  cassock  that 
would  be  on  my  back,  but  some  old  rag  of  a  coat.  There's 
nothing  in  this  world,  Gogarty,  more  unlucky  than  a 
suspended  priest.  I  think  I  can  see  myself  in  the  streets, 
hanging  about  some  public  house,  holding  horses  at- 
tached to  a  cab-rank." 

"  Lord  of  Heaven,  Moran !  what  are  you  coming  here 
to  talk  to  me  in  this  way  for?  The  night  you're  speak- 
ing of  was  bad  enough,  but  your  memory  of  it  is  worse. 

263 


THE   LAKE 

Nothing  of  what  you're  saying  would  have  happened;  a 
man  like  you  would  be  always  able  to  pick  up  a  living." 

"  And  where  would  I  be  picking  up  a  living  if  it 
weren't  on  a  cab-rank,  or  you  either  ?  " 

"  Well,  'tis  melancholy  enough  you  are  this  even- 
ing." 

"  And  all  for  nothing,  for  there  you  are,  sitting  in 
your  old  chair.  I  see  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself." 

"  That  don't  matter.  You  see,  if  one  didn't  do  what 
one  felt  like  doing,  one  would  have  remorse  of  con- 
science forever  after." 

"  I  suppose  so.  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Moran,  to 
come  all  this  way." 

"  What  is  it  but  a  step?    Three  miles " 

"  And  a  half." 

Moved  by  a  febrile  impatience,  which  he  could  not 
control,  Father  Oliver  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"  Now,  Moran,  isn't  it  strange  ?  I  wonder  how  it 
was  that  you  should  have  come  to  tell  me  that  you  were 
going  off  to  drink  somewhere.  You  said  you  were  going 
to  lie  up  in  a  public  house  and  drink  for  daysx,  and  yet 
you  didn't  think  of  giving  up  the  priesthood." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Gogarty  ?  Don't  you  know 
well  enough  I'd  have  been  suspended  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you 
that  drink  had  taken  that  power  over  me  that,  if  roar- 
ing hell  were  open,  and  I  sitting  on  the  brink  of  it  and  a 
table  beside  me  with  whisky  on  it,  I  should  fill  myself  a 
glass?" 

"And  knowing  you  were  going  down  to  hell?  " 

"  Yes,  that  night  nothing  would  have  stopped  me. 
264 


THE  LAKE 

But,  talking  of  hell,  I  heard  a  good  story  yesterday.  Pat 
Carabine  was  telling  his  flock  last  Sunday  of  the  tortures 
of  the  damned,  and  having  said  all  he  could  about  devils 
and  pitchforks  and  caldrons,  he  came  to  a  sudden  pause 
— a  blank  look  came  into  his  face,  and,  looking  round  the 
church  and  seeing  the  sunlight  streaming  through  the 
door,  his  thoughts  went  off  at  a  tangent.  '  Now,  boys,' 
he  said,  '  if  this  fine  weather  continues,  I  hope  you'll  be 
all  out  in  the  bog  next  Tuesday  bringing  home  my 
turf.' " 

Father  Oliver  laughed,  but  his  laughter  did  not  sat- 
isfy Father  Moran,  and  he  told  how  on  another  occasion 
Father  Pat  had  finished  his  sermon  on  hell  by  telling  his 
parishioners  that  the  devil  was  the  landlord  of  hell. 
"  And  I  leave  yourself  to  imagine  the  groaning  that  was 
heard  in  the  church  that  morning,  for  weren't  they  all 
small  tenants?  .  .  .  But  I'm  afraid  my  visit  has  upset 
you,  Gogarty." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  You  don't  seem  to  enjoy  a  laugh  like  you  used  to." 

"  Well,  I  was  thinking  at  that  moment  that  I've  heard 
you  say  that,  even  though  you  gave  way  to  drink,  you 
never  had  any  doubts  about  the  reality  of  the  hell  that 
awaited  you  for  your  sins." 

"  That's  the  way  it  is,  Gogarty,  one  believes,  but  one 
doesn't  act  up  to  one's  belief.  Human  nature  is  incon- 
sistent. Nothing  is  queerer  than  human  nature,  and  will 
you  be  surprised  if  I  tell  you  that  I  believe  I  was  a 
better  priest  when  I  was  drinking  than  I  am  now  that 
I'm  sober?  I  was  saying  that  human  nature  is  very 

265 


THE   LAKE 

queer;  and  it  used  to  seem  queer  to  myself.  I  looked 
upon  drink  as  a  sort  of  blackmail  I  paid  to  the  devil  so 
that  he  might  let  me  be  a  good  priest  in  everything  else. 
That's  the  way  it  was  with  me,  and  there  was  more  sense 
in  the  idea  than  you'd  be  thinking,  for  when  the  drunken 
fit  was  over  I  used  to  pray  as  I  have  never  prayed  since. 
If  there  was  not. a  bit  of  wickedness  in  the  world,  there 
would  be  no  goodness.  And  as  for  faith,  drink  never 
does  any  harm  to  one's  faith  whatsoever;  there's  only  one 
thing  that  takes  a  man's  faith  from  him,  and  that  is 
woman.  You  remember  the  expulsions  at  Maynooth,  and 
you  know  what  they  were  for.  Well,  that  sin  is  a  bad 
one,  but  I  don't  think  it  affects  a  man's  faith  any  more 
than  drink  does.  It  is  woman  that  kills  the  faith  in  men." 

"  I  think  you're  right ;  woman  is  the  danger.  The 
Church  dreads  her.  Woman  is  life." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

Catherine  came  into  the  room  to  lay  the  cloth,  and 
Father  Oliver  asked  Father  Moran  to  come  out  into  the 
garden.  It  was  now  nearing  its  prime.  In  a  few  days 
more  the  carnations  would  be  all  in  bloom,  ^nd  Father 
Oliver  reflected  that  very  soon  it  would  begin  to  look 
neglected.  In  a  year  or  two  it  would  have  drifted  back 
to  the  original  wilderness,  "  to  briar  and  weed,"  he  said  to 
himself;  and  he  began  to  think  how  he  loved  this  tiny 
plot  of  ground,  with  a  wide  path  running  down  the  center, 
flower  borders  on  each  side,  and  a  narrow  path  round 
the  garden  beside  the  hedge.  The  potato  ridges  and  the 
runners  and  the  cabbages  came  in  the  middle.  Goose- 
berry bushes  and  currant  bushes  grew  thickly,  there  were 

266 


THE   LAKE 

little  apple  trees  here  and  there,  and  in  one  corner  the 
two  large  apple  trees  under  which  he  sat  and  smoked  his 
pipe  in  the  evenings. 

"  You're  very  snug  here,  smoking  your  pipe  under 
your  apple  trees." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way;  but  I  think  I  was  happier  where  you 
are." 

"  The  past  is  always  pleasant  to  look  upon." 

"  You  think  so?  " 

The  priests  walked  to  the  end  of  the  garden,  and, 
leaning  on  the  wicket,  Father  Moran  said : 

"  We've  had  queer  weather  lately — dull,  heavy 
weather.  See  how  low  the  swallows  are  flying.  When 
I  came  up  the  drive,  the  gravel  space  in  front  of  the 
house  was  covered  with  them,  the  old  birds  feeding  the 
young  ones." 

"  And  you  were  noticing  these  things,  and  believing 
that  Providence  had  sent  you  here  to  bid  me  good-by." 

"  Isn't  it  when  the  nerves  are  on  a  stretch  that  we 
notice  little  things  that  don't  concern  us  at  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Moran ;  you  are  right.  I've  never  known  you 
as  wise  as  you  are  j;his  evening." 

Catherine  appeared  in  the  kitchen  door.  She  had 
come  to  tell  them  their  supper  was  ready.  During  the 
meal  the  conversation  turned  on  the  roofing  of  the  abbey 
and  the  price  of  timber,  and  when  the  tablecloth  had 
been  removed  the  conversation  swayed  between  the  price 
of  building  materials  and  the  archbishop's  fears  lest  he 
should  meet  a  violent  death,  as  it  had  been  prophesied 
if  he  allowed  a  roof  to  be  put  upon  Kilronan. 

267 


THE   LAKE 

"  You  know  I  don't  altogether  blame  him,  and  I  don't 
think  anyone  does  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  for  what 
has  been  foretold,  generally  comes  to  pass  sooner  or 
later." 

"  The  archbishop  is  a  good  Catholic  who  believes  in 
everything  the  Church  teaches — in  the  Divinity  of  Our 
Lord,  the  Immaculate  Conception,  and  the  Pope's  indul- 
gences. And  why  should  he  be  disbelieving  in  that  which 
has  been  prophesied  for  generations  about  the  abbot  of 
Kilronan?" 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  these  things  ?  " 

"  Does  anyone  know  exactly  what  he  believes  ?  Does 
the  archbishop  really  believe  every  day  of  the  year  and 
every  hour  of  every  day  that  the  abbot  of  Kilronan  will 
be  slain  on  the  highroad  when  a  De  Stanton  is  again 
abbot  ?  "  Father  Oliver  was  thinking  of  the  slip  of  the 
tongue  he  had  been  guilty  of  before  supper,  when  he  said 
that  the  Church  looks  upon  woman  as  the  real  danger, 
because  she  is  the  life  of  the  world.  He  shouldn't  have 
made  that  remark,  for  it  might  be  remembered  against 
him,  and  he  fell  to  thinking  of  somethingxto  say  that 
would  explain  it  away. 

"  Well,  Moran,  we've  had  a  pleasant  evening ;  we've 
talked  a  good  deal,  and  you've  said  many  pleasant  things 
and  many  wise  ones.  We've  never  had  a  talk  that  I 
enjoyed  more,  and  I  shall  not  forget  it  easily." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  Didn't  you  say  that  it  isn't  drink  that  destroys  a 
man's  faith,  but  woman?  And  you  said  rightly,  for 
woman  is  life." 

268 


THE   LAKE 

"  I  was  just  about  to  ask  you  what  you  meant,  when 
Catherine  came  in  and  interrupted  us." 

"  Love  of  woman  means  estrangement  from  the 
Church,  because  you  have  to  protect  her  and  her 
children." 

"  Yes,  that  is  so;  that's  how  it  works  out.  Now,  you 
won't  be  thinking  me  a  fool  for  having  come  to  see  you 
this  evening,  Gogarty?  One  never  knows  when  one's 
impulses  are  true  and  when  they're  false.  If  I  hadn't 
come  the  night  when  the  drink  craving  was  upon  me,  I 
shouldn't  have  been  here  now." 

"  You  did  quite  right  to  come,  Moran ;  we've  talked 
of  a  great  many  things." 

"I've  never  talked  so  plainly  to  anyone  before;  I 
wonder  what  made  me  talk  as  I've  been  talking.  We 
never  talked  like  this  before,  did  we,  Gogarty?  And  I 
wouldn't  have  talked  to  another  as  I've  talked  to  you.  I 
shall  never  forget  what  I  owe  to  you." 

"  You  said  you  were  going  to  leave  the  parish." 

"  I  don't  think  I  thought  of  anything  except  to  burn 
myself  up  with  drink.  I  wanted  to  forget,  and  I  saw 
myself  walking  ahead,  day  after  day,  drinking  at  every 
public  house." 

"  And  just  because  I  saved  you,  you  thought  you 
would  come  to  save  me?  " 

"  There  was  something  of  that  in  it.  Gad !  it's  very 
queer;  there's  no  saying  where  things  will  begin  and 
end.  Pass  me  the  tobacco,  will  you  ?  " 

Father  Moran  began  to  fill  his  pipe,  and  when  he  had 
finished  filling  it,  he  said: 

18  269 


THE  LAKE 

"  Now  I  must  be  going,  and  don't  be  trying  to  keep 
me;  I've  stopped  long  enough.  If  I  were  sent  for  a 
purpose " 

"  But  you  don't  believe  seriously,  Moran,  that  you 
were  sent  for  a  purpose  ?  "  Moran  didn't  answer,  and 
his  silence  irritated  Father  Oliver,  and,  determined  to 
probe  his  curate's  conscience,  he  said :  "  Aren't  you 
satisfied  now  that  it  was  only  an  idea  of  your  own  ?  You 
thought  to  find  me  gone,  and  here  I  am  sitting  before 
you."  After  waiting  for  some  time  for  Moran  to  speak, 
he  said :  "  You  haven't  answered  me." 

"What  should  I  be  answering?" 

"  Do  you  still  think  you  were  sent  for  a  purpose  ?  " 

"Well,  I  do." 

"You  do?" 

The  priests  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a 
while. 

"  Can't  you  give  a  reason  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  can  give  no  reason.  It's  a  feeling.  I  know 
I  haven't  reason  on  my  side.  There  you  are  before  me." 

"  It's  very  queer." 

He  would  have  liked  to  have  called  back  Moran.  It 
seemed  a  pity  to  let  him  go  without  having  probed  this 
matter  to  the  bottom.  He  hadn't  asked  him  if  he  had 
any  idea  in  his  mind  about  the  future,  as  to  what  was 
going  to  happen ;  but  it  was  too  late  now.  "  Why  did 
he  come  here  disturbing  me  with  his  beliefs,"  he  cried 
out,  "  poisoning  my  will  ? "  for  he  had  already  begun  to 
fear  that  Moran's  visit  might  come  between  him  and  his 
project.  The  wind  sighed  a  little  louder,  and  Father 

270 


THE   LAKE 

Oliver  said :  "  I  wouldn't  be  minding  his  coming  here 
to  warn  me,  though  he  did  say  that  it  wasn't  of  his  own 
will  that  he  came,  but  something  from  the  outside  that 
kept  pushing  him  along  the  road — I  wouldn't  be  minding 
all  that  if  this  wind  hadn't  risen.  .  .  .  The  omen  is  a 
double  one."  At  that  moment  the  wind  shook  the  trees 
about  the  house,  and  he  fell  to  thinking  that  if  he  had 
started  to  swim  the  lake  that  night  he  would  be  now 
somewhere  between  Castle  Island  and  the  Joycetown 
shore,  in  the  deepest  and  windiest  part  of  the  lake.  "  And 
pretty  well  tired  I'd  be  at  the  time.  If  I'd  started  to-night 
a  corpse  would  be  floating  about  by  now."  The  wind 
grew  louder.  Father  Oliver  imagined  the  waves  slap- 
ping in  his  face,  and  then  he  imagined  them  slapping 
about  the  face  of  a  corpse  drifting  toward  the  Joyce- 
town  shore. 


271 


XVII 

HE  slept  lightly  that  night,  waking  many  times; 
and,  standing  by  his  window,  he  watched  the 
trees  shaking,  and,  going  back  to  bed,  he  hoped 
he  would  sleep.  Sleep  came  quickly,  but  with  dreams — 
not  dreams  of  drowning  men,  but  of  books  and  news- 
papers. He  heard  music  in  his  dreams — there  was  talk 
of  illegitimate  children.  As  he  dressed  himself  he  criti- 
cised his  dreams  as  the  incoherent  babble  of  the  different 
events  of  the  last  two  years.  On  the  whole  his  dreams 
were  not  discouraging.  "  If  I  had  dreamed  of  drown- 
ing men  I  might  never  have  the  courage  to  go.  Even 
so  I  should  have  gone.  Anything  were  better  than 
to  remain  taking  money  from  poor  people,  playing 
the  part  of  a  hypocrite.  Better,  no  doubt,"  he  said, 
"  for  there  is  always  a  question  of  courage,  and  man's 
courage  is  precarious."  And,  anxious  to  see  what  the 
lake  was  like,  he  went  out  after  breakfast,  telling  Cath- 
erine he  could  not  look  through  her  accounts  that 
morning. 

"  Boisterous  enough,"  he  said.  "  No  swimmer  would 
be  able  to  get  across  to-day  nor  to-night,  even  if  the 
wind  drops  in  the  afternoon." 

The  wind  rose  during  the  night,  and  next  day  he 
could  only  see  white  waves,  tossing  trees,  and  clouds 

272 


THE   LAKE 

tumbling  over  the  mountains.  As  he  sat  alone  in  his 
study  staring  at  the  lamp,  the  wind  often  awoke  him  from 
his  reverie,  and  one  night  he  remembered  suddenly  that 
it  was  no  longer  possible  for  him  to  cross  the  lake  that 
month,  even  if  the  wind  should  cease,  for  he  required 
not  only  a  calm,  but  a  moonlight  night.  And  going  out 
of  the  house,  he  walked  about  the  hilltop,  about  the  old 
thorn  bush,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.  And  he 
stood  watching  the  moon  setting  low  down  on  the  south- 
western horizon.  The  lake — where  was  it?  Had  he  not 
known  that  a  lake  was  there  he  would  hardly  have  been 
able  to  discover  one.  All  faint  traces  of  one  had  dis- 
appeared. Next  night  every  shape  was  lost  in  blue 
shadow,  and  he  wondered  if  his  desire  to  go  had  gone 
with  the  lake.  "  The  lake  will  return,"  he  said,  and  next 
night  he  was  on  the  hillside  waiting  for  the  new  moon. 
And  every  night  the  lake  emerged  from  the  shadow, 
growing  clearer,  till  he  could  follow  its  every  shore. 
"  In  a  few  days  I  shall  be  swimming  out  there  if  this 
weather  lasts."  The  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  if 
the  wind  should  rise  again  about  the  time  of  the  full 
moon  he  would  not  be  able  to  cross  that  year,  for 
in  September  the  water  would  be  too  cold  for  so  long 
a  swim.  "But  it  isn't  likely,"  he  said;  "the  weather 
seems  settled." 

And  the  same  close,  blue  weather  that  had  prevailed 
before  the  storm  returned,  the  same  diffused  sunlight. 

"  There  is  nothing  so  depressing,"  the  priest  said,  "  as 
seeing  swallows  flying  a  few  feet  from  the  ground." 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock — the  day  had  begun  to 
273 


THE   LAKE 

droop  in  his  garden — that  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
beds  admiring  his  carnations.  Every  now  and  again  the 
swallows  collected  into  groups  of  some  six  or  seven, 
and  fled  round  the  gables  of  his  house  shrieking. 
"This  is  their  dinner  hour;  the  moths  are  about."  He 
wandered  on,  thinking  Rose  lacking;  for  she  had  never 
appreciated  that  beautiful  flower,  Miss  Shifner.  But 
her  ear  was  finer  than  his;  she  found  her  delight  in 
music. 

A  thought  broke  through  his  memories.  He  had 
forgotten  to  tell  her  he  would  write  if  he  succeeded  in 
crossing  the  lake,  and  if  he  didn't  write  she  would  never 
know  whether  he  was  living  or  dead.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  so.  After  hesitating  a  moment,  the  desire  to 
write  to  her  took  strong  hold  upon  him,  and  he  sought 
an  excuse  for  writing.  If  he  didn't  write  she  might 
think  that  he  remained  in  Garranard.  She  knew  nothing 
of  Moran's  visit,  nor  of  the  rising  of  the  wind,  nor  of  the 
waning  of  the  moon;  and  he  must  write  to  her  about 
these  things,  for  if  he  were  drowned  she  would  think 
that  God  had  willed  it.  But  if  he  believed  in  God's 
intervention,  he  should  stay  in  his  parish  and  pray 
that  grace  might  be  given  to  him.  "  God  doesn't 
bother  Himself  about  such  trifles  as  my  staying  or  my 
going,"  he  muttered  as  he  hastened  toward  his  house, 
overcome  by  an  immense  joy.  For  he  was  only  really 
happy  when  he  was  thinking  of  her,  or  doing  some- 
thing connected  with  her,  and  to  tell  her  of  the  fa- 
tality that  seemed  to  pursue  him  would  occupy  an 
evening. 

274 


THE   LAKE 


From  Father  Oliver  Gogarty  to  Miss  Rose  Leicester. 

"GARRANARD,  BOHOLA, 

"July  25,  19—. 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  from  me  so  soon  again, 
but  I  forgot  to  say  in  my  last  letter  that,  if  I  succeeded 
in  crossing  the  lake,  I  would  write  to  you  from  New 
York.  And  since  then  many  things  have  happened, 
strange  and  significant  coincidences." 

And  when  he  had  related  the  circumstance  of  Father 
Moran's  visit  and  the  storm,  he  sought  to  excuse  his 
half-beliefs  that  these  were  part  of  God's  providence  sent 
to  warn  him  against  leaving  his  parish. 

"  Only  time  can  rid  us  of  ideas  that  have  been  im- 
planted in  us  in  our  youth,  and  that  have  grown  up  in 
our  flesh  and  in  our  mind.  A  sudden  influence  may 
impel  us  to  tear  them  up  and  cast  them  aside,  but  the 
seed  is  in  us  always,  and  it  grows  again.  '  One  year's 
seed,  seven  years'  weed.'  And  behind  imported  Pales- 
tinian supernature,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  drop  into 
Mr.  Ellis's  style,  or  what  I  imagine  to  be  his  style,  there 
is  the  home  belief  in  fairies,  spirits,  and  ghosts,  and  the 
reading  of  omens.  Who  among  us  does  not  remember 
the  old  nurse  who  told  him  stories  of  magic  and  witch- 
craft ?  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  things  happen  that  seem 
in  contradiction  to  all  we  know  of  Nature's  laws.  More- 
over, these  unusual  occurrences  have  a  knack  of  hap- 

275 


THE   LAKE 

pening  to  men  at  the  moment  of  their  setting  out  on 
some  irrevocable  enterprise. 

"  You  who  are  so  sympathetic  will  understand  how 
my  will  has  been  affected  by  Father  Moran's  visit.  Had 
you  heard  him  tell  how  he  had  been  propelled,  as  it  were, 
out  of  his  house  toward  me,  you,  too,  would  believe  that 
he  were  a  messenger.  He  stopped  on  his  threshold  to  try 
to  find  a  reason  for  coming  to  see  me;  he  couldn't  find 
any,  and  he  walked  on,  feeling  that  something  had  hap- 
pened. He  must  have  thought  himself  a  fool  when  he 
found  me  sitting  here  in  the  thick  flesh.  But  what  he 
said  did  not  seem  nonsense  to  me;  it  seemed  like  some 
immortal  wisdom  come  from  another  world.  .  .  .  Re- 
member that  I  was  on  the  point  of  going.  Nor  is  this 
all.  If  nothing  else  had  happened,  I  might  have  looked 
upon  Father  Moran's  visit  as  a  coincidence.  But  why 
should  the  wind  rise  ?  So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  it  began 
to  rise  between  eleven  and  twelve,  at  the  very  time  I 
should  have  been  swimming  between  Castle  Island  and 
the  Joycetown  shore.  I  know  that  belief  in  signs  and 
omens  and  prognostics  can  be  laughed  at;  nothing  is 
more  ridiculous  than  the  belief  that  man's  fate  is  gov- 
erned by  the  flight  of  birds,  yet  men  have  believed  in  bird 
augury  from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  about  a  curlew  (I  can  still  see  it  in 
the  air,  its  beautifully  shapen  body  and  wings,  its  long 
beak,  and  its  trailing  legs;  it  staggered  a  little  in  its 
flight  when  the  shot  had  been  fired,  but  it  had  strength 
enough  to  reach  Castle  Island ;  it  then  toppled  over,  fall- 
ing dead  on  the  shore)  ;  and  I  ask  you  if  it  is  wonderful 

276 


THE   LAKE 

that  I  should  have  been  impressed?  Such  a  thing  was 
never  heard  of  before — a  wild  bird  with  its  legs  tied 
together ! 

"  At  first  I  believed  that  this  bird  had  been  sent  to 
warn  me  from  going,  but  it  was  that  bird  that  put  the 
idea  into  my  head  how  I  might  escape  from  the  parish 
without  giving  scandal.  Life  is  so  strange  that  one 
doesn't  know  what  to  think.  Of  what  use  are  signs  and 
omens  if  the  interpretation  is  always  obscure?  They 
merely  wring  the  will  out  of  us;  and  well  we  may  ask, 
Who  would  care  for  his  life  if  he  knew  he  was  going  to 
lose  it  on  the  morrow?  And  what  mother  would  love 
her  children  if  she  were  certain  they  would  fall  into  evil 
ways,  or  if  she  believed  the  soothsayers  who  told  her 
that  her  children  would  oppose  her  ideas?  She  might 
love  them  independent  of  their  opposition,  but  how  could 
she  love  them  if  she  knew  they  were  only  born  to  do 
wrong?  Volumes  have  been  written  on  the  subject  of 
predestination  and  free  will,  and  the  truth  is  that  it  is  as 
impossible  to  believe  in  one  as  in  the  other.  Neverthe- 
less, prognostications  have  a  knack  of  coming  true,  and 
if  I  am  drowned  crossing  the  lake  you  will  be  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  omens.  Perhaps  I  should  not  write 
you  these  things,  but  the  truth  is,  I  cannot  help  myself ; 
there  is  no  power  of  resistance  in  me.  I  do  not  know  if 
I  am  well  or  ill ;  my  brain  is  on  fire,  and  I  go  on  thinking 
and  thinking,  trying  to  arrive  at  some  rational  belief,  but 
never  succeeding.  Sometimes  I  think  of  myself  as  a  fly 
on  a  window  pane,  crawling  and  buzzing,  and  crawling 
and  buzzing  again,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  .  .  . 

277 


THE   LAKE 


"  You  are  one  of  those  who  seem  to  have  been  born 
without  much  interest  in  religion  or  fear  of  the  here- 
after, and  in  a  way  I  am  like  you,  but  with  a  difference : 
I  acquiesced  in  early  childhood,  and  accepted  traditional 
beliefs,  and  tried  to  find  happiness  in  the  familiar  rather 
than  in  the  unknown.  Whether  I  should  have  found  the 
familiar  sufficient  if  I  hadn't  met  you  I  shall  never  know. 
I've  thought  a  good  deal  on  this  subject,  and  it  has  come 
to  seem  to  me  that  we  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  think- 
ing of  the  intellect  and  the  flesh  as  separate  things, 
whereas  they  are  but  one  thing.  I  could  write  a  great 
deal  on  this  subject,  but  I  stop,  as  it  were,  on  the 
threshold  of  my  thought,  for  this  is  no  time  for  philo- 
sophical writing.  I  am  all  a-tremble,  and  though  my  brain 
is  working  quickly,  my  thoughts  are  not  mature  and 
deliberate.  My  brain  reminds  me  at  times  of  the  skies 
that  followed  Father  Moran's  visit — skies  restlessly  flow- 
ing, always  different  and  always  the  same.  These  last 
days  are  merciless  days,  and  I  have  to  write  to  you  in 
order  to  get  some  respite  from  purposeless  thinking. 
Sometimes  I  stop  in  my  walk  to  ask  myself  who  I  am  and 
what  I  am,  and  where  I  am  going.  Will  you  be  shocked 
to  hear  that,  when  I  awoke  and  heard  the  wind  howling, 
I  nearly  got  out  of  bed  to  pray  to  God,  to  thank  Him  for 
having  sent  Moran  to  warn  me  from  crossing  the  lake? 
I  think  I  did  say  a  prayer,  thanking  Him  for  His  mercy. 
Then  I  felt  that  I  should  pray  to  Him  for  grace  that  I 
might  remain  at  home  and  be  a  good  priest  always,  but 
that  prayer  I  couldn't  formulate,  and  I  suffered  a  great 
deal.  I  know  that  such  vacillations  between  belief  and 

278 


THE   LAKE 

unbelief  are  neither  profitable  nor  admirabk ;  I  know  that 
to  pray  to  God  to  thank  Him  for  having  saved  me  from 
death  while  in  mortal  sin,  and  yet  to  find  myself  unable 
to  pray  to  Him  to  do  His  will,  is  illogical,  and  I  confess 
that  my  fear  is  now  lest  old  beliefs  will  claim  me  before 
the  time  comes.  A  poor,  weak,  tried  mortal  man  am  I, 
but  being  what  I  am  I  cannot  be  different.  I  am  calm 
enough  now,  and  it  seems  as  if  my  sufferings  were  at  an 
end ;  but  to-morrow  some  new  fear  will  rise  up  like  mist, 
and  I  shall  be  enveloped.  What  an  awful  thing  it  would 
be  if  I  should  find  myself  without  will  on  the  fifteenth, 
or  the  sixteenth,  or  the  seventeenth  of  August!  If  the 
wind  should  rise  again,  and  the  lake  be  windy  while  the 
moon  is  full,  my  chance  for  leaving  here  this  summer 
will  be  at  an  end.  The  water  will  be  too  cold  in  Sep- 
tember. 

"  And  now  you  know  all,  and  if  you  don't  get  a  letter 
from  New  York,  understand  that  what  appears  in  the 
newspaper  is  true — that  I  was  drowned  while  bathing. 
I  needn't  apologize  for  this  long  letter;  you  will  under- 
stand that  the  writing  of  it  has  taken  me  out  of  myself, 
and  that  is  a  great  gain.  There  is  no  one  else  to  whom 
I  can  write,  and  it  pleases  me  to  know  this.  I  am  sorry 
for  my  sisters  in  the  convent ;  they  will  believe  me  dead. 
I  have  a  brother  in  America,  the  one  who  sent  the  har- 
monium that  you  used  to  play  on  so  beautifully.  He  will 
believe  in  my  death,  unless  we  meet  in  America,  and  that 
is  not  likely.  I  look  forward  to  writing  to  you  from 
New  York. 

"  OLIVER  GOGARTY." 
279 


THE   LAKE 

Two  evenings  were  passed  pleasantly  on  the  composi- 
tion and  the  copying  of  this  letter,  and,  not  daring  to 
intrust  it  to  the  postboy,  he  took  it  himself  to  Bohola; 
and  he  measured  the  time  carefully,  so  as  to  get  there  a 
few  minutes  before  the  postmistress  sealed  up  the  bag. 
He  delayed  in  the  office  till  she  had  sealed  it,  and  re- 
turned home,  following  the  letter  in  imagination  to 
Dublin,  across  the  Channel  to  Ethelstone  Manor ;  he  cal- 
culated its  arrival,  the  servant  in  charge  who  would 
redirect  it.  His  thoughts  were  at  ramble,  and  they  fol- 
lowed the  steamer  down  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor.  It 
would  lie  in  the  post  office  at  Jerusalem  or  some  frontier 
town,  or  maybe  a  dragoman  attached  to  some  Turkish 
caravansary  would  take  charge  of  it,  and  it  might  reach 
Rose  by  caravan.  She  might  read  it  in  the  waste.  Or 
maybe  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  written  "  Not 
to  be  forwarded  "  on  the  envelope.  But  the  servant  at 
Ethelstone  Manor  would  know  what  to  do,  and  he  re- 
turned home  smiling,  unable  to  believe  in  himself  or  in 
anything  else,  so  extraordinary  did  it  seem  to  him  that 
he  should  be  writing  to  Rose  Leicester,  who  was  going 
in  search  of  the  Christian  river,  while  he  was  planning 
a  journey  westward. 

A  few  days  more,  and  the  day  of  departure  was  almost 
at  hand;  but  it  seemed  a  very  long  time  coming.  And 
what  he  needed  was  a  material  occupation;  he  spent 
hours  in  his  garden  watering  and  weeding,  and  at  gaze 
in  front  of  a  bed  of  fiery  cross.  Was  its  scarlet  not  finer 
than  Lady  Hindlip?  Lady  Hindlip,  like  fiery  cross,  is 

280 


THE   LAKE 


scentless,  and  not  so  hardy.  No  white  carnation  compares 
with  Shiela;  but  her  calyx  often  bursts,  and  he  con- 
sidered the  claims  of  an  old  pink-flaked  clove  carnation, 
striped  like  a  French  brocade.  But  it  straggled  a  little 
in  growth,  and  he  decided  that  for  hardness  he  must  give 
the  verdict  to  Raby  Castle.  True  that  everyone  grows 
Raby  Castle,  but  no  carnation  is  so  hardy  or  flowers  so 
freely.  As  he  stood  admiring  her  great  trusses  of  bloom 
among  the  tea  roses,  he  remembered  suddenly  that  it 
was  his  love  of  flowers  that  had  brought  him  to  Garra- 
nard.  If  he  hadn't  come  to  this  parish  he  wouldn't  have 
known  her.  And  if  he  hadn't  known  her,  he  wouldn't 
have  been  himself.  He  owed  his  life  to  these  flowers. 

His  brain  would  not  cease  thinking;  his  bodily  life 
seemed  to  have  dissipated,  and  he  seemed  to  himself  like 
a  pure  mentality.  He  seemed  to  tremble  in  his  very 
entrails,  and,  glad  to  interest  himself  in  the  business  of 
the  parish,  he  listened  with  greater  attention  than  he  had 
ever  listened  before  to  the  complaints  that  were  brought 
to  him — to  the  man  who  had  failed  to  give  up  a  piece 
of  land  that  he  had  promised  to  include  in  his  daughter's 
fortune,  and  to  Patsy  Murphy,  who  had  come  to  tell  him 
that  his  house  had  been  broken  into  while  he  was  away 
in  Tinnick.  The  old  man  had  spent  the  winter  in  Tinnick 
with  some  relations,  for  the  house  that  the  colonel  had 
given  him  permission  to  build  at  the  edge  of  the  lake 
had  proved  too  cold  for  a  winter  residence. 

Patsy  seemed  to  have  grown  older  since  the  autumn ; 
he  seemed  like  a  doll  out  of  which  the  sawdust  was  run- 
ning, a  poor  shaking  thing — a  large  head  afloat  on  a 

281 


THE   LAKE 

weak  neck.  Tresses  of  white  hair  hung  on  his  shoulders, 
and  his  watery  eyes  were  red  and  restless  like  a  ferret's. 
He  opened  his  mouth,  and  there  were  two  teeth  on  either 
side  like  tusks.  Gray  stubble  covered  his  face,  and  he 
wore  a  brown  suit,  the  trousers  retained  about  his  pot- 
belly— all  that  remained  of  his  body — by  a  scarf.  There 
was  some  limp  linen  and  a  red  muffler  about  his  throat. 
He  spoke  of  his  age — he  was  ninety-five — and  the  priest 
said  he  was  a  fine-looking,  hearty  man  for  his  years. 
There  wasn't  a  doubt  but  he'd  pass  the  hundred.  Patsy 
was  inclined  to  believe  he  would  go  to  one  hundred  and 
one ;  for  he  had  been  told  in  a  vision  he  would  go  as  far 
as  that. 

"  You  see,  living  in  the  house  alone  the  brain  empties 
and  the  vision  comes." 

That  was  how  he  explained  his  belief  as  he  flopped 
along  by  the  priest's  side,  his  head  shaking  and  his 
tongue  going,  telling  tales  of  all  kinds,  half-remembered 
things :  how  the  Gormleys  and  the  Actons  had  driven  the 
colonel  out  of  the  country,  and  dispersed  all  his  family 
with  their  goings-on.  That  was  why  they  didn't  want 
him — he  knew  too  much  about  them.  And  he  told  a 
strange  story — how  they  had  frightened  the  colonel's 
mother  by  tying  a  horsehair  to  the  knocker  of  the  hall 
door,  and  at  the  end  of  the  horsehair  a  tame  hare. 
Whenever  the  hare  moved  a  rapping  was  heard  at  the 
front  door.  But  nobody  could  discover  the  horsehair, 
and  the  rapping  was  attributed  to  a  family  ghost. 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  sword,  and  was  now 
inclined  to  talk  of  his  fists,  and  he  stopped  the  priest 

282 


THE  LAKE 


in  the  middle  of  the  road  to  tell  a  long  tale  how  once,  in 
Liverpool,  some  one  had  spoken  against  the  colonel,  and, 
holding  up  his  clinched  fist,  he  said  that  no.  one  ever 
escaped  alive  from  the  fist  of  Patsy  Murphy. 

It  was.  a  trial  to  listen  to  him,  for  one  could  not  help 
thinking  that  to  become  like  him  it  was  only  necessary 
to  live  as  long  as  he.  And  it  was  difficult  to  get  rid  of 
the  old  fellow.  He  followed  the  priest  as  far  as  the  vil- 
lage, and  would  have  followed  him  farther  if  Mrs. 
Egan  were  not  standing  there  waiting  for  Father  Oliver 
— a  delicate-featured  woman  with  a  thin  aquiline  nose, 
who  was  still  good-looking,  though  her  age  was  apparent. 
She  was  forty-five,  or  perhaps  fifty,  and  she  held  her 
daughter's  baby  in  her  coarse  peasant  hands.  Since  the 
birth  of  the  child  a  dispute  had  been  raging  between  the 
two  mothers-in-law;  the  whole  village  was  talking,  and 
wondering  what  was  going  to  happen  next. 

Mrs.  Egan's  daughter  had  married  a  soldier,  a  Protes- 
tant, some  two  years  ago,  a  man  called  Rean.  Father 
Oliver  had  always  found  him  a  straightforward  fellow, 
who,  although  he  would  not  give  up  his  own  religion, 
never  tried  to  interfere  with  his  wife's;  he  always  said 
that  if  Mary  liked  she  could  bring  up  her  children  Catho- 
lics. But  hitherto  they  had  not  been  blessed  with  chil- 
dren, and  Mary  had  been  jeered  at  more  than  once,  the 
people  saying  that  her  barrenness  was  a  punishment  sent 
by  God.  At  last  a  child  had  been  given  them,  and  all 
would  have  gone  well  if  Rean's  mother  had  not  come  to 
Garranard  for  her  daughter-in-law's  confinement.  Being 
a  black  Protestant,  she  wouldn't  hear  of  the  child  being 

283 


THE   LAKE 

brought  up  a  Catholic  or  even  baptized  in  a  Catholic 
church.  And  the  child  was  now  a  week  old.  Rean  was 
fairly  distracted,  for  neither  his  own  mother  nor  his 
mother-in-law  would  give  way ;  each  was  trying  to  outdo 
the  other.  Mrs.  Rean  watched  Mrs.  Egan,  and  Mrs. 
Egan  watched  Mrs.  Rean,  and  the  poor  mother  lay  all 
day  with  the  baby  at  her  breast,  listening  to  the  two  of 
them  quarreling. 

"  She's  gone  behind  the  hedge  for  a  minute,  your 
reverence,  so  I  whipped  the  child  out  of  me  daughter's 
bed;  and  if  your  reverence  would  only  hurry  up  we  could 
have  the  poor  cratur  baptized  in  the  Holy  Faith.  Only 
there's  no  time  to  be  lost;  she  do  be  watchin'  every  stir, 
your  reverence." 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Egan;  I'll  be  waiting  for  you  up 
at  the  chapel." 

"  A  strange  rusticity  of  mind,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  wended  his  way  along  the  village  street.  Nor  at  the 
chapel  gate  could  he  help  laughing,  for  he  couldn't  help 
thinking  how  Mrs.  Rean  the  elder  would  rage  when  the 
child  was  brought  back  to  her  a  Catholic.  So  this  was 
going  to  be  his  last  priestly  act,  the  baptism  of  the  child, 
the  saving  of  the  child  to  the  Holy  Faith.  He  told  Mike 
to  get  the  things  ready,  and  turned  into  the  sacristy  to 
put  on  his  surplice. 

The  familiar  presses  gave  out  a  pleasant  odor,  and  the 
vestments  which  he  might  never  wear  again  interested 
him,  and  he  stood  seemingly  lost  in  thought.  "  But  I 
mustn't  keep  the  child  waiting,"  he  said,  waking  up  sud- 
denly; and  coming  out  of  the  sacristy,  he  found  twenty 

284 


THE   LAKE 

villagers  collected  round  the  font.  They  had  come  up 
from  the  cottages  to  see  the  child  baptized  in  the  holy 
religion. 

"Where's  the  child,  Mrs.  Egan?" 

The  group  began  talking  suddenly,  trying  to  make 
plain  to  him  what  had  happened. 

"  Now,  if  you  all  talk  together,  I  shall  never  under- 
stand." 

"Will  you  leave  off  pushing  me?"  said  one. 

"  Wasn't  it  I  that  saw  Patsy  ?  Will  your  reverence 
listen  to  me? "  said  Mrs.  Egan.  "  It  was  just  as  I  was 
telling  your  reverence,  if  they'd  be  letting  me  alone. 
Your  reverence  had  only  just  turned  in  the  chapel  gate 
when  Mrs.  Rean  ran  from  behind  the  hedge,  and,  getting 
in  front  of  me  who  was  going  to  the  chapel  with  the  baby 
in  me  arms,  she  said:  'Now,  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  have 
that  child  christened  a  Catholic';  and  didn't  she  snatch 
the  child  and  run  away,  taking  a  short  cut  across  the 
fields  to  the  minister's  ?  " 

"  Patsy  Kivel  has  gone  after  her,  and  he'll  catch  up 
on  her,  surely,  and,  she  with  six  ditches  forninst  her." 

"  If  he  doesn't  itself,  maybe  the  minister  isn't  there, 
and  then  she'll  be  bet." 

"  All  I'm  hopin'  is  that  the  poor  child  won't  come  to 
any  harm  between  them;  but  isn't  she  a  fearful,  terrible 
woman,  and  may  the  curse  of  the  Son  of  God  be  on  her 
for  stealin'  away  a  poor  child  the  like  of  that!  " 

"  I'd  cut  the  livers  out  of  the  likes  of  them." 

"  Now,  will  you  mind  what  you're  sayin',  and  the 
priest  listenin'  to  you?  " 

19  285 


THE   LAKE 

"  Your  reverence,  will  the  child  be  always  a  Protes- 
tant ?  Hasn't  the  holy  water  of  the  Church  more  power 
in  it  than  the  water  they  have?  Don't  they  only  throw 
it  at  the  child?" 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Egan " 

"  Ah,  your  reverence,  you're  going  to  say  that  I 
shouldn't  have  given  the  child  to  her,  and  I  wouldn't  if 
I  hadn't  trod  on  a  stone  and  fallen  against  the  wall,  and 
got  afeard  the  child  might  be  hurt." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Father  Oliver,  "  you  see  there's  no 
child " 

"  But  you'll  be  waitin'  a  minute  for  the  sake  of  the 
poor  child,  your  reverence  ?  Patsy  will  be  comin'  back  in 
a  minute." 

On  that  Mrs.  Egan  went  to  the  chapel  door  and 
stood  there,  so  that  she  might  catch  the  first  glimpse 
of  him  as  he  came  across  the  fields.  And  it  was  about 
ten  minutes  after,  when  the  priest  and  his  parishion- 
ers were  talking  of  other  things,  that  Mrs.  Egan  be- 
gan to  wave  her  arm,  crying  out  that  some  one  should 
hurry. 

"  Will  you  make  haste,  and  his  reverence  waitin'  here 
this  half-hour  to  baptize  the  innocent  child!  He'll  be 
here  in  less  than  a  minute  now,  your  reverence.  Will  you 
have  patience,  and  the  poor  child  will  be  safe?" 

The  child  was  snatched  from  Patsy,  and  so  violently 
that  the  infant  began  to  cry,  and  Mrs.  Egan  didn't  know 
if  it  was  a  hurt  it  had  received,  for  the  panting  Patsy  was 
unable  to  answer  her. 

"  The  child's  all  right,"  he  blurted  out  at  last.  "  She 
286 


THE  LAKE 

said  I  might  take  it  and  welcome,  now  it  was  a  Protes- 
tant." 

"  Ah,  sure,  you  great  thickhead  of  a  boy!  weren't  you 
quick  enough  for  her?  " 

"  Now,  what  are  you  talkin'  about?  Hadn't  she  half 
a  mile  start  of  me,  and  the  minister  at  the  door  just  as 
I  was  gettin'  over  the  last  bit  of  a  wall !  " 

"  And  didn't  you  go  in  after  them?  " 

"  What  would  I  be  doin',  goin'  into  a  Protestant 
church?" 

Patsy's  sense  of  his  responsibility  was  discussed  vio- 
lently until  Father  Oliver  said : 

"  Now,  I  can't  be  waiting  any  longer.  Do  you  want 
me  to  baptize  the  child  or  not  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  safer,  wouldn't  it?  "  said  Mrs.  Egan. 

"  It  would,"  said  Father  Oliver ;  "  the  parson  mightn't 
have  said  the  words  while  he  was  pouring  the  water." 

And,  going  toward  the  font  with  the  child,  Father 
Oliver  took  a  cup  of  water,  but,  having  regard  for  the 
child's  cries,  he  was  a  little  sparing  with  it. 

"  Now,  don't  be  sparin'  with  the  water,  your  rever- 
ence, and  don't  be  mindin'  its  noise;  it's  twicest  the  quan- 
tity of  holy  water  it'll  be  wanting,  and  it  half  an  hour  a 
Protestant." 

It  was  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Rean  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  and  Patsy  Kivel,  who  didn't  care  to  enter  the 
Protestant  church,  rushed  to  put  her  out  of  his. 

"  You  can  do  what  you  like  now  with  the  child;  it's 
a  Protestant,  for  all  your  tricks." 

"  Go  along,  you  old  heretic  bitch !  " 
287 


THE  LAKE 

"  Now,  Patsy,  will  you  behave  yourself  when  you're 
standing  in  the  church  of  God !  Be  leaving  the  woman 
alone,"  said  Father  Oliver;  but  before  he  got  to  the  door 
to  separate  the  two,  Mrs.  Rean  was  running  down  the 
chapel  yard  followed  by  the  crowd  of  disputants,  and  he 
heard  the  quarrel  growing  fainter  in  the  village  street. 

Rose-colored  clouds  had  just  begun  to  appear  midway 
in  the  pale  sky — a  beautiful  sky,  all  gray  and  rose — and 
all  this  babble  about  baptism  seemed  strangely  incon- 
gruous. "  And  to  think  that  men  are  still  seeking  scrolls 
in  Turk'estan  to  prove — "  The  sentence  did  not  finish 
itself  in  his  mind;  a  ray  of  western  light  falling  across  the 
altar  steps  in  the  stillness  of  the  church  awakened  a 
remembrance  in  him  of  the  music  that  Rose's  hands 
drew  from  the  harmonium,  and,  leaning  against  the  com- 
munion rails,  he  allowed  the  music  to  absorb  him.  He 
could  hear  it  so  distinctly  in  his  mind  that  he  refrained 
from  going  up  into  the  gallery  and  playing  it,  for  in  his 
playing  he  would  perceive  how  much  he  had  forgotten, 
how  imperfect  was  his  memory.  It  were  better  to  lose 
himself  in  the  emotion  of  the  memory  of  the  music;  it 
was  in  his  blood,  and  he  could  see  her  hands  playing  it, 
and  the  music  was  colored  with  the  memory  of  her  hair 
and  her  eyes.  His  teeth  clinched  a  little  as  if  in  pain, 
and  then  he  feared  the  enchantment  would  soon  pass 
away ;  but  the  music  preserved  it  longer  than  he  had  ex- 
pected, and  it  might  have  lasted  still  longer  if  he  had 
not  become  aware  that  some  one  was  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

The  feeling  had  suddenly  come  over  him  that  he  was 
288 


THE   LAKE 

not  alone;  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  him — he  knew  not 
how,  neither  by  sight  nor  sound — through  some  excep- 
tional sense.  Turning  toward  the  sunlit  doorway,  he  saw 
a  poor  man  standing  there,  not  daring  to  disturb  the 
priest,  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  he  was  engaged  in  prayer. 
The  poor  man  was  Pat  Kearney.  So  the  priest  was  a 
little  overcome,  for  that  Pat  Kearney  should  come  to 
him  at  such  a  time  was  portentous.  "  It  certainly  is 
strange,  coincidence  after  coincidence,"  he  said;  and  he 
stood  looking  at  Pat  as  if  he  didn't  know  him,  till  the 
poor  man  was  frightened  and  began  to  wonder,  for  no 
one  had  ever  looked  at  him  with  such  interest,  not  even 
the  neighbor  whom  he  had  asked  to  marry  him  three 
weeks  ago.  And  this  Pat  Kearney,  a  short,  thickset 
man,  sinking  into  years,  began  to  wonder  what  new  mis- 
fortune had  tracked  him  down.  His  teeth  were  worn  and 
yellow  as  Indian  meal,  and  his  rough,  ill-shaven  cheeks 
and  pale  eyes  reminded  the  priest  of  the  country  in  which 
Pat  lived,  and  of  the  four  acres  of  land  at  the  end  of  the 
boreen  that  Pat  had  been  digging  these  many  years. 

He  had  come  to  ask  Father  Oliver  if  he  would  marry 
him  for  a  pound,  but,  as  Father  Oliver  didn't  answer  him, 
he  fell  to  thinking  that  it  was  his  clothes  that  the  priest 
was  admiring,  "  for  hadn't  his  reverence  given  him  the 
clothes  himself?  And  if  it  weren't  for  the  self-same 
clothes  he  wouldn't  have  the  pound  in  his  pocket  to  give 
the  priest  to  marry  him." 

"  It  was  yourself,  your  reverence " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  very  well." 

Pat  had  come  to  tell  him  that  there  was  work  to  be 
289 


THE   LAKE 

had  in  Tinnick,  but  he  didn't  dare  to  show  himself  in 
Tinnick,  not  having  any  clothes  to  wear.  He  had  stood 
humbly  before  the  priest  in  a  pair  of  corduroy  trousers 
that  hardly  covered  his  nakedness. 

And  it  was  as  Father  Oliver  stood  examining  and 
pitying  his  parishioner's  poverty  it  had  occurred  to  him 
that,  if  he  were  to  buy  two  suits  of  clothes  in  Tinnick  and 
give  one  to  Pat  Kearney,  he  might  wrap  the  other  one 
in  a  bundle,  and  place  it  on  the  rocks  on  the  Joycetown 
side.  It  was  not  likely  that  the  shopman  in  Tinnick  would 
remember,  after  three  months,  that  he  had  sold  two  suits 
to  the  priest ;  but  should  he  remember  this,  the  explana- 
tion would  be  that  he  had  bought  them  for  Pat  Kearney. 
Now,  looking  at  this  poor  man  who  had  come  to  ask  him 
if  he  would  marry  him  for  a  pound,  the  priest  was  lost 
in  wonder. 

"  So  you're  going  to  be  married,  Pat  ?  " 

And  Pat,  who  hadn't  spoken  to  anyone  since  the 
woman  whose  potatoes  he  had  been  digging  had  said 
she'd  as  soon  marry  him  as  another,  began  to  chatter, 
and  to  ramble  in  his  chatter.  There  was  so  much  to  tell 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  tell  it.  There  was  his  rent 
and  the  woman's  holding,  for  now  they  would  have  nine 
acres  of  land,  money  would  be  required  to  stock  it,  and 
he  did  not  know  if  the  bank  would  lend  him  the  money. 
Perhaps  the  priest  would  help  him  to  get  it. 

"  But  why  did  you  come  to  me  to  marry  you? 
Aren't  you  two  miles  nearer  to  Father  Moran  than  you 
are  to  me?" 

Pat  hesitated,  not  liking  to  say  that  he  would  be  hard 
290 


THE   LAKE 

set  to  get  round  Father  Moran.  So  he  began  to  talk  of  the 
Egans  and  the  Reans.  For  hadn't  he  heard,  as  he  came 
up  the  street,  that  Mrs.  Rean  had  stolen  the  child  from 
Mrs.  Egan,  and  had  had  it  baptized  by  the  minister? 
And  he  hoped  to  obtain  the  priest's  sympathy  by  saying: 

"  What  a  terrible  thing  it  was  that  the  police  should 
allow  a  black  Protestant  to  steal  a  Catholic  child,  and  its 
mother  a  Catholic  and  all  her  people  before  her!  " 

"  When  Mrs.  Rean  snatched  the  child,  it  hadn't  been 
baptized,  and  was  neither  a  Catholic  nor  a  Protestant," 
the  priest  said  maliciously. 

Pat  Kearney,  whose  theological  knowledge  did  not 
extend  very  far,  remained  silent,  and  the  priest  was  glad 
of  his  silence,  for  he  was  thinking  that  in  a  few  minutes 
he  would  catch  sight  of  the  square  whitewashed  school- 
house  on  the  hillside  by  the  pine  wood.  The  day  being 
Saturday  the  school  was  empty.  He  had  thought  he 
would  like  to  see  again  the  place  where  he  and  Rose  had 
stood  talking  together;  but  a  long  field  lay  between  the 
road  past  the  schoolhouse  and  the  road  past  the  priest's 
house,  and  what  would  it  avail  him  to  see  the  empty 
room?  He  looked,  instead,  for  the  hawthorn  bush  by 
which  he  and  Rose  had  lingered,  and  it  was  a  sad  pleasure 
to  think  how  she  had  gone  up  the  road  after  bidding  him 
good-by. 

But  Pat  Kearney  had  begun  to  talk  again  of  how  he 
could  get  an  advance  from  the  bank. 

"  I  can  back  no  bill  for  you,  Pat,  but  I'll  give  you  a 
letter  to  Father  Moran  telling  him  that  you  can't  afford 
to  pay  more  than  a  pound." 

291 


THE   LAKE 

Rose's  letters  were  in  the  drawer  of  his  writing 
table ;  he  unlocked  it,  and  put  the  packet  into  his  pocket, 
and  when  he  had  scribbled  a  little  note  to  Father  Moran, 
he  said: 

"  Now  take  this  and  be  off  with  you ;  I've  other  busi- 
ness to  attend  to  besides  you;  "  and  he  called  to  Catherine 
for  his  towels. 

"  Now,  is  it  out  bathing  you're  going,  your  reverence? 
You  won't  be  swimming  out  to  Castle  Island,  and  forget- 
ting that  you  have  confessions  at  seven?  " 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  time,"  he  answered  testily. 

Halfway  down  the  hillside  his  steps  slackened,  and  he 
began  to  regret  his  irritation;  for  he  would  never  see 
Catherine  again.  ...  It  was  a  pity  he  had  answered  her 
testily.  But  he  couldn't  go  back;  he  must  think  where 
he  could  hide  himself.  And  he  must  find  a  safe  hiding. 
Moran  might  call.  Catherine  might  send  Moran  after 
him,  saying  his  reverence  had  gone  down  to  bathe,  or  any 
parishioner,  however  unwarranted  his  errand,  might  try 
to  seek  him  out.  "  And  all  errands  will  be  unwarranted 
to-day,"  he  said  as  he  hurried  along  the  shore,  thinking 
of  the  different  paths  round  the  rocks  and  through  the 
blackthorn  bushes. 

His  mind  was  on  the  big  wood ;  there  he  could  dodge 
anyone  following  him,  for  while  his  pursuer  would  be 
going  round  one  way  he  would  be  coming  back  the  other. 
But  it  would  be  lonely  in  the  big  wood ;  and  as  he  hurried 
down  the  old  cart  track  he  thought  how  he  might  while 
away  an  hour  among  the  ferns  in  the  little  spare  fields 
at  the  end  of  the  plantation,  watching  the  sunset,  for 

292 


THE   LAKE 

hours  would  have  to  pass  before  the  moon  rose,  and  the 
time  would  pass  slowly  under  the  melancholy  hazel 
thickets  into  which  the  sun  had  not  looked  for  thousands 
of  years.  A  wood  had  always  been  there.  The  Welshmen 
had  felled  trees  in  it  to  build  rafts  and  boats  to  reach 
their  island  castles.  Bears  and  wolves  had  been  slain 
in  it,  and  thinking  how  it  was  still  a  refuge  for  foxes, 
marten  cats,  and  badgers,  how  infested  it  was  with  hawks, 
he  made  his  way  along  the  shore  through  the  rough  fields. 
He  ran  a  little,  and  after  waiting  awhile  ran  on  again. 
On  reaching  the  edge  of  the  wood  he  hid  himself  behind 
a  bush,  and  did  not  dare  to  move,  lest  there  might  be 
some  one  about.  It  was  not  till  he  made  sure  there  was 
no  one  that  he  stooped  under  the  blackthorns,  and  fol- 
lowed a  trail,  thinking  the  animal,  probably  a  badger, 
had  its  den  under  the  old  stones;  and  to  pass  the  time 
he  sought  for  a  den,  but  could  find  none. 

A  small  bird,  a  wren,  was  picking  among  the  moss; 
every  now  and  then  it  fluttered  a  little  way,  stopped,  and 
picked  again.  "  Now,  what  instinct  guided  its  search  for 
worms?"  he  asked,"and  getting  up  he  followed  the  bird, 
but  it  escaped  into  a  thicket.  There  were  only  hazel  stems 
in  the  interspace  he  had  chosen  to  hide  himself  in,  but 
there  were  thickets  nearly  all  about  it,  and  it  took  some 
time  to  find  a  path  through  these.  After  a  time  one  was 
found,  and  its  many  windings  followed.  By  noticing 
everything  he  would  pass  the  time,  and  make  himself 
secure  against  being  surprised. 

The  path  soon  came  to  an  end,  and  he  walked  round 
to  the  other  side  of  the  wood,  to  see  if  the  bushes  were 

293 


THE  LAKE 

thick  enough  to  prevent  anyone  from  coming  upon  him 
suddenly  from  that  side ;  and  when  all  investigations  were 
finished — there  was  really  very  little  to  investigate — he 
came  back,  thinking  of  what  his  future  life  would  be.  He 
had  proposed  to  spend  his  long  vigil  thinking  of  Rose, 
but  he  could  only  think  of  himself,  and  he  dreaded  per- 
sonal meditation,  feeling  that  if  he  did  not  restrain  his 
thoughts  within  the  circle  of  present  circumstance,  if 
he  did  not  fix  them  on  external  things,  his  courage — or 
should  he  say  his  will? — would  desert  him.  For,  when 
all  was  said  and  done,  it  did  not  require  much  courage  to 
swim  across  a  lake,  especially  if  one  were  a  good  swim- 
mer, and  he  was  an  excellent  one.  It  required  far  more 
courage  to  leave  the  parish.  But  to  swim  across  the 
lake  was  a  leave-taking;  he  couldn't  return  home  in  a 
frieze  coat  and  a  pair  of  corduroy  trousers.  Catherine's 
face  when  she  saw  him!  But  of  what  use  thinking  of 
these  things?  He  was  going;  everything  was  settled. 
If  he  could  only  restrain  his  thoughts — they  were  as  wild 
as  bees. 

Standing  by  a  hazel  stem,  his  hand  upon  a  bough, 
he  fell  to  thinking  what  his  life  would  be,  and  very  soon 
becoming  implicated  in  a  dream,  he  lost  consciousness 
of  time  and  place,  and  was  borne  away  as  by  a  current; 
he  floated  down  his  future  life,  seeing  his  garret  room 
more  clearly  than  he  had  ever  seen  it — his  bed,  his 
washhand-stand,  and  the  little  table  on  which  he  did  his 
writing.  No  doubt  most  of  it  would  be  done  in  the  office, 
but  some  of  it  would  be  done  at  home ;  and  at  nightfall  he 
would  descend  from  his  garret  like  a  bat  from  the  eaves. 

294 


THE   LAKE 

Journalists  flutter  like  bats  about  newspaper  offices. 
The  bats  haunt  the  same  eaves,  but  the  journalist  drifts 
from  city  to  city,  from  county  to  county,  busying  himself 
with  ideas  that  were  not  his  yesterday,  and  will  not  be 
his  to-morrow.  An  interview  with  a  statesman  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  review  of  a  book,  and  the  day  after  he  may 
be  thousands  of  miles  away,  describing  a  great  flood  or  a 
railway  accident.  The  journalist  throws  himself  down  to 
rest  in  an  inn.  He  has  no  time  to  make  friends,  and  he 
lives  in  no  place  long  enough  to  know  it  intimately ;  pass- 
ing acquaintance  and  exterior  aspects  of  things  are  his 
share  of  the  world.  And  it  was  in  quest  of  such  vagrancy 
of  ideas  and  affections — the  idealism  of  the  tramp — that 
he  was  going. 

At  that  moment  a  sudden  sound  in  the  wood  startled 
him  from  his  reverie,  and  he  peered,  a  scared  expression 
on  his  face,  certain  that  the  noise  he  had  heard  was  Father 
Moran's  footstep.  It  was  but  a  hare  lolloping  through 
the  undenvood,  and  wondering  at  the  disappointment  he 
felt,  he  asked  if  he  were  disappointed  that  Moran  had  not 
come  again  to  stop  jiim.  He  didn't  think  he  was,  only 
the  course  of  his  life  had  been  so  long  dependent  on  a 
single  act  of  will  that  a  hope  had  begun  in  his  mind 
that  some  outward  event  might  decide  his  fate  for  him. 
Last  month  he  was  full  of  courage,  his  nerves  were  like 
iron ;  to-day  he  was  a  poor  vacillating  creature,  walking 
in  a  hazel  wood,  uncertain  lest  delay  had  taken  the  savor 
out  of  his  adventure,  his  attention  distracted  by  the 
sounds  of  the  wood,  by  the  snapping  of  a  dry  twig,  by 
a  leaf  falling  through  the  branches. 

295 


THE   LAKE 

"  Time  is  passing,"  he  said,  "  and  I  must  decide 
whether  I  go  to  America  to  write  newspaper  articles,  or 
stay  at  home  to  say  Mass — a  simple  matter,  surely." 

The  ordinary  newspaper  article  he  thought  he  could 
do  as  well  as  another — in  fact,  he  knew  he  could.  But 
could  he  hope  that  in  time  his  mind  would  widen  and 
deepen,  and  that  he  might  be  able  to  write  something 
worth  writing,  something  that  might  win  her  admiration  ? 
Perhaps  when  he  had  shed  all  his  opinions.  Many  had 
gone  already,  more  would  follow,  and  one  day  he  would 
be  as  free  as  she  was.  She  had  been  a  great  intellectual 
stimulus,  and  soon  he  began  to  wonder  how  it  was  that 
all  the  paraphernalia  of  religion  interested  him  no  longer, 
how  he  seemed  to  have  suddenly  outgrown  the  things 
belonging  to  the  ages  of  faith,  and  the  subtle  question, 
if  passion  were  essential  to  the  growth  of  the  mind,  arose. 
For  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  mind  had  grown,  though  he 
had  not  read  the  Scriptures,  and  he  doubted  if  the  read- 
ing of  the  Scriptures  would  have  taught  him  as  much  as 
Rose's  beauty.  "  After  all,"  he  said,  "  woman's  beauty 
is  more  important  to  the  world  than  a  scroll."  He  had 
begun  to  love  and  to  put  his  trust  in  what  was  natural, 
spontaneous  in  structure,  and  might  succeed  in  New 
Yorjc  better  than  he  expected.  But  he  would  not  like 
to  think  that  it  was  hope  of  literary  success  that  tempted 
him  from  Garranard.  He  would  like  to  think  that  in 
leaving  his  poor  people  he  was  serving  their  best  in- 
terests, and  this  was  surely  the  case.  For  hadn't  he 
begun  to  feel  that  what  they  needed  was  a  really  efficient 
priest,  one  who  would  look  after  their  temporal  interests? 

296 


THE  LAKE 

In  Ireland  the  priest  is  a  temporal  as  well  as  a  spiritual 
need.  Who  else  would  take  an  interest  in  this  forlorn 
Garranard  and  its  people,  the  reeds  and  rushes  of  ex- 
istence? 

He  had  striven  to  get  the  Government  to  build  a 
bridge,  but  had  lost  patience;  he  had  wearied  of  the  task. 
Certain  priests  he  knew  would  not  have  wearied  of  it; 
they  would  have  gone  on  heckling  the  Government  and 
the  different  boards  until  the  building  of  the  bridge  could 
no  longer  be  resisted.  His  failure  to  get  this  bridge  was 
typical,  and  it  proved  beyond  doubt  that  he  was  right  in 
thinking  he  had  no  aptitude  for  the  temporal  direction  of 
his  parish. 

But  a  curate  had  once  lived  in  Bridget  Clery's  cot- 
tage who  had  served  his  people  excellently  well,  had  in- 
trigued successfully,  and  forced  the  Government  to  build 
houses  and  advance  money  for  drainage  and  other  useful 
works.  And  this  curate  had  served  his  people  in  many 
capacities — as  scrivener,  land  valuer,  surveyor,  and  en- 
gineer. It  was  not  till  he  came  to  Garranard  that  he 
seemed  to  get  out  of  touch  with  practical  affairs,  and 
he  began  to  wonder  if  it  was  the  comfortable  house  he 
lived  in,  if  it  were  the  wine  he  drank,  the  cigars  he 
smoked,  that  had  produced  this  degeneracy,  if  it  were  de- 
generacy. Or  was  it  that  he  had  worn  out  a  certain  side 
of  his  nature  in  Bridget  Clery's  cottage?  It  might  well 
be  that.  Many  a  man  has  mistaken  a  passing  tendency 
for  a  vocation.  We  all  write  poetry  in  the  beginning  of 
our  lives;  but  most  of  us  leave  off  writing  poetry  after 
some  years,  unless  the  instinct  is  a  very  deep  one  or  one 

297 


THE  LAKE 

is  a  fool.  It  might  well  be  that  his  philanthropic  in- 
stincts were  exhausted ;  and  it  might  well  be  that  this  was 
not  the  case,  for  one  never  gets  at  the  root  of  one's  nature. 

The  only  thing  he  was  sure  of  was  that  he  had  changed 
a  great  deal,  and,  he  thought,  for  the  better.  He  seemed 
to  himself  a  much  more  real  person  than  he  was  a  year 
ago,  being  now  in  full  possession  of  his  soul,  and  surely 
the  possession  of  one's  soul  is  a  great  reality.  By  the 
soul  he  meant  a  special  way  of  feeling  and  seeing.  But 
the  soul  is  more  than  that — it  is  a  light;  and  this  inner 
light,  faint  at  first,  had  not  been  blown  out.  If  he  had 
blown  it  out,  as  many  priests  had  done,  he  would  not  have 
experienced  any  qualms  of  conscience.  The  other  priests 
in  the  diocese  experienced  none  when  they  drove  erring 
women  out  of  their  parishes,  and  the  reason  of  this  was 
that  they  followed  a  light  from  without,  deliberately 
shutting  out  the  light  of  the  soul. 

The  question  interested  him,  and  he  pondered  it  a 
long  while,  finding  himself  at  last  forced  to  conclude  that 
there  is  no  moral  law  except  one's  own  conscience,  and 
that  the  moral  obligation  of  every  man  is  to  separate  the 
personal  conscience  from  the  impersonal  conscience.  By 
the  impersonal  conscience  he  meant  the  opinions  of 
others,  traditional  beliefs,  and  the  rest;  and  thinking  of 
these  things  he  wandered  round  the  Druid  stones,  and 
when  his  thoughts  returned  to  Rose's  special  case  he 
seemed  to  understand  that  if  any  other  priest  had  acted 
as  he  had  acted  he  would  have  acted  rightly,  for  in  driv- 
ing a  sinful  woman  out  of  the  parish  he  would  be  giving 
expression  to  the  moral  law  as  he  understood  it  and  as 

298 


THE   LAKE 

Garranard  understood  it.  This  primitive  code  of  morals 
was  all  Garranard  could  understand  in  its  present  civiliza- 
tion, and  any  code  is  better  than  no  code.  Of  course, 
if  the  priest  were  a  transgressor  himself  he  could  not  ad- 
minister the  law.  Happily,  that  was  a  circumstance  that 
did  not  arise  often.  So  it  was  said ;  but  what  did  he  know 
of  the  souls  of  the  priests  with  whom  he  dined,  smoked 
pipes,  and  played  cards?  And  he  stopped,  surprised,  for 
it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  all  a  man  knows  only 
of  his  fellow  is  whether  he  be  clean  or  dirty,  short  or  tall, 
thin  or  stout.  "  Even  the  soul  of  Moran  is  obscure  to 
me,"  he  said — "  obscure  as  this  wood; "  and  at  that  mo- 
ment the  mystery  of  the  wood  seemed  to  deepen,  and  he 
stood  for  a  long  while  looking  through  the  twilight  of 
the  hazels. 

Very  likely  many  of  the  priests  he  knew  had  been 
tempted  by  women;  some  had  resisted  temptation,  and 
some  had  sinned  and  repented.  There  might  be  a  priest 
who  had  sinned  and  lived  for  years  in  sin ;  even  so  if  he 
didn't  leave  his  parish,  if  he  didn't  become  an  apostate 
priest,  faith  would  return  to  him  in  the  end.  But  the 
apostate  priest  is  anathema  in  the  eyes  of  the  Church; 
the  doctrine  always  has  been  that  a  sin  matters  little  if 
the  sinner  repent.  Father  Oliver  suddenly  saw  himself 
years  hence,  still  in  Garranard,  administering  the  sacra- 
ments, and  faith  returning  like  an  incoming  tide,  covering 
the  weedy  shore,  lapping  round  the  high  rock  of  doubt. 
If  he  desired  faith,  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  go  on  saying 
Mass,  hearing  confessions,  baptizing  the  young,  burying 
the  old,  and  in  twenty  years — maybe  it  would  take  thirty 

299 


— when  his  hair  was  white  and  his  skin  shriveled,  he 
would  be  again  a  good  priest,  beloved  by  his  parishioners, 
and  carried  in  the  fullness  of  time  by  them  to  the  green 
churchyard  where  Father  Peter  lay  near  the  green  pines. 
Only  the  other  day,  coming  home  from  his  after- 
noon's walk,  he  had  stopped  to  admire  his  house.  The 
long  shadow  of  its  familiar  trees  had  awakened  an  ex- 
traordinary love  in  him,  and  when  he  had  crossed  the 
threshold  and  sat  down  in  his  armchair,  his  love  for  his 
house  had  surprised  him,  and  he  sat  like  one  enchanted 
by  his  own  fireside,  lost  in  admiration  of  the  old 
mahogany  bookcase  with  the  inlaid  panels,  that  he  had 
bought  at  an  auction.  How  somber  and  quaint  it  had 
looked,  furnished  with  his  books  that  he  had  had  bound 
in  Dublin,  and  what  pleasure  it  always  was  to  him  to  see 
a  ray  lighting  up  the  parchment  bindings !  He  had  hung 
some  engravings  on  his  walls,  and  these  had  become  very 
dear  to  him;  and  there  were  some  spoons  that  he  had 
bought  at  an  auction  some  time  ago—old,  worn  Georgian 
spoons — and  his  hands  had  become  accustomed  to  them; 
and  there  was  an  old  tea  service,  with  flowers  painted 
inside  the  cups,  and  his  eyes  had  become  accustomed  to 
these  flowers.  He  was  leaving  these  things,  and  he  didn't 
know  exactly  why  he  was  leaving  them.  If  he  were  going 
away  to  join  Rose  in  America  he  could  understand  his 
going.  But  he  would  never  see  her  again — at  least,  it 
was  not  probable  that  he  would.  He  was  not  following 
her,  but  an  idea,  an  abstraction,  an  opinion ;  he  was  sepa- 
rating himself,  and  forever,  from  his  native  land  and  his 
past  life,  and  his  quest  was,  alas!  not  her,  but —  He 

300 


THE  LAKE 

was  following  what?  Life?  Yes;  but  what  is  life?  Do 
we  find  life  in  adventure  or  by  our  own  fireside?  For 
all  he  knew  he  might  be  flying  from  the  very  thing  he 
thought  he  was  following. 

Then  his  thoughts  zigzagged,  and,  almost  unaware 
of  his  thought,  he  compared  life  to  a  flower — to  a  flower 
that  yields  up  its  perfume  only  after  long  cultivation — and 
then  to  a  wine  that  gains  its  fragrance  only  after  it  has 
been  lying  in  the  same  cellar  for  many  years,  and  he 
started  up  convinced  that  he  must  return  home  at  once. 
But  he  had  not  taken  many  steps  before  he  stopped: 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  stay  here  year  after  year!  I  can- 
not stay  here  till  I  die,  seeing  that  lake.  ...  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  I  am  going.  It  matters  little  to  me  whether  life 
is  to  be  found  at  home  or  abroad,  in  adventure  or  in 
habits  and  customs.  One  thing  matters — do  I  stay 
or  go?" 

He  turned  into  the  woods  and  walked  aimlessly,  try- 
ing to  escape  from  his  thoughts,  and  to  do  so  he  ad- 
mired the  pattern  of  the  leaves  and  the  flight  of  the 
birds,  and  he  pondered  over  the  old  stones  that  probably 
were  once  Druid  altars.  But  these  expedients  were  only 
partially  successful,  and  he  came  back  an  hour  after, 
walking  slowly  through  the  hazel  stems,  thinking  that 
the  law  of  change  is  the  law  of  life.  Drawing  back  the 
lower  branches,  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  watch- 
ing the  cormorants  coming  down  the  glittering  lake  to 
their  roost.  With  a  flutter  of  wings  they  perched  on  the 
old  castle,  and  his  mind  continued  to  formulate  argu- 
ments, and  the  last  always  seemed  the  best. 
20  301 


THE  LAKE 

At  half-past  seven  he  was  thinking  that  life  is  gained 
by  escaping  from  the  past  rather  than  by  trying  to  retain 
it;  he  had  begun  to  feel  more  and  more  sure  that  tradi- 
tion is  but  dead  flesh  which  we  must  cut  off  if  we  would 
live.  ...  But  just  at  this  spot,  an  hour  ago,  he  had 
acquiesced  in  the  belief  that  if  a  priest  continued  to  ad- 
minister the  sacraments  faith  would  return  to  him;  and 
no  doubt  the  sacraments  would  bring  about  some  sort 
of  religious  stupor,  but  not  that  sensible,  passionate 
faith  which  he  had  once  possessed,  and  which  he  remem- 
bered had  not  met  the  approval  of  the  authorities  at 
Maynooth.  He  had  said  that  in  flying  from  the  monotony 
of  tradition  he  would  find  only  another  monotony,  and  a 
worse  one — that  of  adventure;  and  no  doubt  the  jour- 
nalist's life  is  made  up  of  fugitive  interests.  But  every 
man  has,  or  should  have,  an  intimate  life  as  well  as  an 
external  life;  and  in  losing  interest  in  religion  he  had 
lost  the  intimate  life  which  the  priesthood  had  once  given 
him.  The  Mass  had  become  a  mere  Latin  formula,  and 
the  vestments  and  the  chalice,  the  Host  itself>  a  sort  of 
fetichism — that  is  to  say,  a  symbolism  from  which  life 
had  departed,  the  shells  retaining  hardly  a  murmur  of 
the  ancient  ecstasy.  It  was  therefore  indispensable  that 
he  should  go  in  quest  of — what?  Not  of  adventure.  He 
preferred  to  think  that  his  quest  was  the  personal  life — 
that  intimate  exaltation  that  comes  to  him  who  has 
striven  to  be  himself,  and  nothing  but  himself.  The  life 
he  was  going  to  might  lead  him  even  to  a  new  faith. 
Religious  forms  arise  and  die.  The  Catholic  Church  had 
very  likely  come  to  the  end  of  its  thread;  the  spool 

302 


THE  LAKE 

seemed  pretty  well  emptied.  He  sat  down  so  that  he 
might  think  better  what  the  new  faith  might  be.  What 
would  be  its  first  principle  ?  he  asked  himself.  Not  find- 
ing any  answer  to  this  question,  he  began  to  think  of  his 
life  in  America.  He  would  begin  as  a  mere  recorder  of 
passing  events.  But  why  should  he  assume  that  he  would 
not  rise  higher?  And  if  he  remained  to  the  end  of  his 
day  a  humble  reporter,  he  would  still  have  the  supreme 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he  had  not  resigned  himself 
body  and  soul  to  the  life  of  the  pool,  to  a  froglike 
acquiescence  in  the  stagnant  pool. 

His  hand  still  held  back  the  hazel  branch,  but  there 
seemed  to  have  been  a  long  interval,  during  which  no 
single  thought  had  crossed  his  mind — at  least,  none  that 
he  could  remember.  No  doubt  his  tired  mind  had  fallen 
into  lethargy,  from  which  a  sudden  fear  had  roughly 
awakened  him.  What  if  some  countryman,  seeking  his 
goats  among  the  rocks,  had  happened  upon  the  bundle 
and  taken  it  home!  And  at  once  he  imagined  himself 
climbing  up  the  rocks  naked.  Pat  Kearney's  cabin  was 
close  by,  but  Pat  had  no  clothes  except  those  on  his 
back,  and  would  have  to  go  round  the  lake  to  Gar- 
ranard;  and  the  priest  thought  how  he  would  sit  naked 
in  Kearney's  cottage  hour  after  hour. 

"  If  anyone  comes  to  the  cabin  I  shall  have  to  hold 
the  door  to.  There  is  a  comic  side  to  every  adven- 
ture," he  said,  "  and  a  more  absurd  one  it  would  be 
difficult  to  imagine." 

The  day  had  begun  in  a  ridiculous  adventure — the 
303 


THE  LAKE 

baptism  of  the  poor  child,  baptized  first  a  Protestant, 
then  a  Catholic.  And  he  laughed  a  little,  and  then  he 
sighed. 

"  Is  the  whole  thing  a  fairy  tale,  a  piece  of  midsummer 
madness,  I  wonder?  No  matter,  I  can't  stay  here,  so 
why  should  I  trouble  to  discover  a  reason  for  my  going  ? 
In  America  I  shall  be  living  a  life  in  agreement  with 
God's  instincts.  My  quest  is  life." 

And,  remembering  some  words  in  her  last  letter,  his 
heart  cried  out  that  his  love  must  bring  her  back  to 
him  eventually,  though  Ellis  were  to  take  her  to  the  end 
of  the  earth.  He  was  carried  quickly  beyond  the  light 
of  common  sense  into  a  dim,  happy  world  where  all 
things  came  and  went  or  were  transformed  in  obedience 
to  his  unexpressed  will.  Whether  the  sun  were  curtained 
by  leafage  or  by  silken  folds  he  did  not  know— only  this : 
that  she  was  coming  toward  him,  borne  lightly  as  a  ball 
of  thistledown.  He  perceived  the  color  of  her  hair  and 
eyes  and  hands  and  of  the  pale  dress  she  wore;  but  her 
presence  seemed  revealed  to  him  through  the  exaltation 
of  some  sense  latent  or  nonexistent  in  him  in  his  waking 
moods.  His  delight  was  of  the  understanding,  for  they 
neither  touched  hands  nor  spoke.  A  little  surprise  rose 
to  the  surface  of  his  rapture — surprise  at  the  fact  that 
he  experienced  no  pang  of  jealousy.  She  had  said  that 
true  love  could  not  exist  without  jealousy !  But  was  she 
right  in  this?  It  seemed  to  him  that  we  begin  to  love 
when  we  cease  to  judge.  If  she  were  different  she 
wouldn't  be  herself,  and  it  was  herself  he  loved — the 
mystery  of  her  sunny,  singing  nature.  There  is  no 

304 


THE   LAKE 

judgment  where  there  is  perfect  sympathy,  and  he  un- 
derstood that  it  would  be  as  vain  for  him  to  lament  that 
her  eyebrows  were  fair  as  to  lament  or  reprove  her 
conduct. 

Continuing  the  same  train  of  thought,  he  remem- 
bered that,  though  she  was  young  to-day,  she  would 
pass  ^nto  middle,  maybe  old,  age;  that  the  day  would 
come  when  her  hair  would  be  less  bright,  her  figure 
would  lose  its  willowness;  but  these  changes  would  not 
lessen  his  love  for  her.  Should  he  not  welcome  change  ? 
Thinking  that  perhaps  fruit  time  is  better  than  blossom 
time,  he  foresaw  a  deeper  love  awaiting  hint,  and  a  ten- 
derness that  to-day  he  could  not  feel  he  would  enjoy  in 
years  to  come.  Nor  could  habit  blunt  his  perceptions 
or  intimacy  unravel  the  mystery  of  her  sunny  nature.  So 
the  bourne  could  never  be  reached ;  for  when  everything 
had  been  said,  something  would  remain  unspoken.  The 
two  rhythms  out  of  which  the  music  of  life  is  made, 
intimacy  and  adventure,  would  meet,  would  merge,  and 
become  one;  and  she,  who  was  to-day  an  adventure, 
would  become  in  the  end  the  home  of  his  affections. 

A  great  bird  swooped  out  of  the  branches  above 
him,  startling  him,  and  he  cried  out:  "An  owl — only 
an  owl !  "  The  wood  was  quiet  and  dark,  and  in  fear 
he  groped  his  way  to  the  old  stones;  for  one  thing  still 
remained  to  be  done  before  he  left — he  must  burn  her 
letters. 

And  he  burnt  them  one  by  one,  shielding  the  flame 
with  his  hand  lest  it  should  attract  some  passer-by. 
When  the  last  was  burnt  he  feared  no  longer ;  his  won- 

305 


THE  LAKE 

der  was  why  he  had  hesitated,  why  his  mind  had  been 
torn  by  doubt.  At  the  back  of  his  mind  he  had  always 
known  he  was  going.  Had  he  not  written  saying  he 
was  going,  and  wasn't  that  enough?  And  he  thought 
for  a  moment  of  what  her  opinion  of  him  would  be  if 
he  stayed  in  Garranard.  In  a  cowardly  moment  he  had 
hoped  that  something  would  happen  to  save  him  from 
the  ultimate  decision,  and  now  he  was  glad  that  he  had 
overcome  doubt  without  the  extraneous  help  of  the 
memory  of  the  promise  he  had  made  her. 

A  yellow  disk  appeared,  cutting  the  flat  sky  sharply, 
and  he  laid  his  priest's  clothes  in  the  middle  of  a  patch 
of  white  sand  where  they  could  be  easily  seen.  He 
placed  the  Roman  collar  upon  the  top,  and,  stepping 
from  stone  to  stone,  he  stood  on  the  last  one  as  on  a 
pedestal,  tall  and  gray  in  the  moonlight — buttocks  hard 
as  a  faun's,  and  dimpled  like  a  faun's  when  he  draws 
himself  up  before  plunging  after  a  nymph. 

When  he  emerged  he  was  among  the  reeds,  shaking 
the  water  from  his  face  and  hair.  The  night  was  so 
warm  that  it  was  like  swimming  in  a  bath,  and  when 
he  had  swum  a  quarter  of  a  mile  he  turned  over  on 
his  back  to  see  the  moon  shining.  Then  he  turned  over 
to  see  how  near  he  was  to  the  island.  "  Too  near,"  he 
thought,  for  he  had  started  before  his  time.  But  he 
might  delay  a  little  on  the  island,  and  he  walked  up 
the  shore,  his  blood  in  happy  circulation,  his  flesh  and 
brain  a-tingle,  a  little  captivated  by  the  vigor  of  his  mus- 
cles, and  ready  and  anxious  to  plunge  into  the  water 
on  the  other  side,  to  tire  himself  if  he  could,  in  the 


THE  LAKE 

mile  and  a  half  of  gray  lake  that  lay  between  him  and 
shore. 

There  were  lights  in  every  cottage  window ;  the  vil- 
lagers would  be  about  the  roads  for  an  hour  or  more, 
and  it  would  be  well  to  delay  on  the  island,  and  he  chose 
a  high  rock  to  sit  upon.  His  hand  ran  the  water  off 
his  long  thighs,  and  then  off  his  long,  thin  arms,  and 
he  watched  the  laggard  moon  rising  slowly  in  the  dusky 
night,  like  a  duck  from  the  marshes.  Supporting  him- 
self with  one  arm,  he  let  himself  down  the  rock  and 
dabbled  his  foot  in  the  water,  and  the  splashing  of  the 
water  reminded  him  of  little  Philip  Rean,  who  had  been 
baptized  twice  that  morning  notwithstanding  his  loud 
protest.  Now  one  of  his  baptizers  had  been  baptized, 
and  by  emersion  he  had  experienced  great  benefit  from 
the  sacrament,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  would  plunge 
again  into  the  beneficent  flood.  The  night  was  so  still  and 
warm  that  it  was  happiness  to  be  naked,  and  he  thought 
he  could  sit  for  hours  on  that  rock  without  feeling  cold, 
watching  the  red  moon  rolling  up  through  the  trees  round 
Tinnick ;  and  when  the  moon  turned  from  red  to  gold  he 
wondered  how  it  was  that  the  mere  brightening  of  the 
moon  could  put  such  joy  into  a  man's  heart. 

Derrinrush  was  the  nearest  shore,  and  far  away  in 
the  wood  he  heard  a  fox  bark.  "  On  the  trail  of  some 
rabbit,"  he  thought,  and  again  he  admired  the  great  gold 
moon  rising  heavily  through  the  dusky  sky,  and  the  lake 
formless  and  spectral  beneath. 

Catherine  no  doubt  bad  begun  to  feel  agitated;  she 
would  be  walking  about  at  midnight,  too  scared  to  go 

307 


THE   LAKE 

to  sleep.  He  was  sorry  for  her;  perhaps  she  would  be 
the  only  one  who  would  prefer  to  hear  he  was  in 
America  and  doing  well  than  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake. 
Eliza  would  regret  in  a  way,  as  much  as  her  adminis- 
tration of  the  convent  would  allow  her;  Mary  would 
pray  for  him — so  would  Eliza,  for  the  matter  of  that; 
and  their  prayers  would  come  easily,  thinking  him  dead. 
Poor  women!  if  only  for  their  peace  of  mind  he  would 
undertake  the  second  half  of  the  crossing. 

A  long  mile  of  water  lay  between  him  and  Joyce- 
town,  but  there  was  a  courage  he  had  never  felt  before 
in  his  heart,  and  a  strength  he  had  never  felt  before  in 
his  limbs.  Once  he  stood  up  in  the  water,  sorry  that  the 
crossing  was  not  longer.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  have  had 
enough  of  it  before  I  get  there ; "  and  he  turned  on  his 
side  and  swam  half  a  mile  before  changing  his  stroke. 
He  changed  it  and  got  on  his  back  because  he  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  cold  and  tired,  and  soon  after  he  began 
to  think  that  it  would  be  about  as  much  as  he  could  do  to 
reach  the  shore.  A  little  later  he  was  swimming  frog 
fashion,  and  it  was  a  disappointment  to  see  that  the 
shore  was  still  a  long  way  off.  For  now  he  was  like 
one  paralyzed,  but  he  struggled  on.  At  last  the  water 
shallowed ;  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  strength,  and 
as  he  clambered  up  the  rocks  he  said :  "  Another  hun- 
dred yards  would  have  done  for  me."  He  was  so  cold 
that  he  could  not  think,  and  sought  his  clothes  vaguely, 
sitting  down  to  rest  from  time  to  time.  He  didn't  know 
for  certain  if  he  would  find  them,  and  if  he  didn't  he 
must  die  of  cold.  So  the  rough  shirt  was  very  wel- 

308 


THE   LAKE 


come  when  he  found  it,  and  so  were  the  woolen  socks. 
As  soon  as  he  was  dressed  he  thought  that  he  felt  nearly 
strong  enough  to  climb  up  the  rocks,  but  he  was  not  as 
strong  as  he  thought,  and  it  took  him  a  long  time  to 
get  to  the  top.  But  at  the  top  the  sward  was  pleasant — 
it  was  the  sward  of  the  terrace  of  the  old  house;  and 
lying  at  length,  fearful  lest  sleep  might  overtake  him, 
he  looked  across  the  lake.  "  A  queer  dusky  night,"  he 
said,  "  with  hardly  a  star,  and  that  great  moon  pouring 
silver  down  the  lake."  He  could  hear  the  lake's  warble, 
"  singing,"  he  said,  "  in  the  dim  silence,  and  the  lake 
shadowy  and  distant  as  my  past  life." 

In  another  twenty  minutes  he  was  sufficiently  rested 
to  undertake  the  walk  to  Tinnick,  and  getting  to  his 
feet,  he  buckled  the  strap  tighter  about  his  waist. 

"  I  shall  never  see  that  lake  again,  but  I  shall  never 
forget  it,"  he  said,  as  he  plodded  along  the  road  a  little 
dazed,  hardly  aware  of  the  fields  and  the  trees  and  the 
gable  ends  of  the  houses  that  he  knew  so  well. 

As  he  dozed  in  the  train,  in  a  corner  of  an  empty 
carriage,  the  spectral  light  of  the  lake  awoke  him,  and 
when  he  arrived  at  Cork  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
being  engulfed  in  the  deep  pool  by  the  Joycetown  shore. 
On  the  deck  of  the  steamer  he  heard  the  lake's  warble 
above  the  violence  of  the  waves.  "  There  is  a  lake  in 
every  man's  heart,"  he  said,  clinging  to  a  wet  rope;  he 
added,  "  And  every  man  must  ungird  his  loins  for  the 
crossing." 

THE   END 

(1) 


WHERE    LOVE    CONQUERS. 

The  Reckoning. 

By  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 

The  author's  intention  is  to  treat,  in  a  series  of  four  or  five 
romances,  that  part  of  the  war  for  independence  which  particularly 
affected  the  great  landed  families  of  northern  New  York,  the 
Johnsons,  represented  by  Sir  William,  Sir  John,  Guy  Johnson,  and 
Colonel  Claus;  the  notorious  Butlers,  father  and  son,  the  Schuylers, 
Van  Rensselaers,  and  others. 

The  first  romance  of  the  series,  Cardigan,  was  followed  by  the 
second,  The  Maid-at-Arms.  The  third,  in  order,  is  not  completed. 
The  fourth  is  the  present  volume. 

As  Cardigan  pretended  to  portray  life  on  the  baronial  estate  of 
Sir  William  Johnson,  the  first  uneasiness  concerning  the  coming 
trouble,  the  first  discordant  note  struck  in  the  harmonious  councils 
of  the  Long  House,  so,  in  The  Maid-at-Arms,  which  followed  in 
order,  the  author  attempted  to  paint  a  patroon  family  disturbed  by 
the  approaching  rumble  of  battle.  That  romance  dealt  with  the 
first  serious  split  in  the  Iroquois  Confederacy ;  it  showed  the  Long 
House  shattered  though  not  fallen ;  the  demoralization  and  final 
flight  of  the  great  landed  families  who  remained  loyal  to  the  British 
Crown ;  and  it  struck  the  key-note  to  the  future  attitude  of  the 
Iroquois  toward  the  patriots  of  the  frontier — revenge  for  their 
losses  at  the  battle  of  Oriskany — and  ended  with  the  march  of  the 
militia  and  continental  troops  on  Saratoga. 

The  third  romance,  as  yet  incomplete  and  unpublished,  deals 
with  the  war-path  and  those  who  followed  it  led  by  the  landed 
gentry  of  Tryon  County;  and  ends  with  the  first  solid  blow  de- 
livered at  the  Long  House,  and  the  terrible  punishment  of  the 
Great  Confederacy. 

The  present  romance,  the  fourth  in  chronological  order,  pickf 
up  the  thread  at  that  point. 

The  author  is  not  conscious  of  having  taken  any  liberties  with 
history  in  preparing  a  framework  of  facts  for  a  mantle  of  romance. 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 
NEW  YORK,  May  26, 1904. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY.    NEW    YORK. 


WORKS  OF  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS. 

IOLE 

Colored  inlay  on  the  cover,  decorative  borders,  head- 
pieces, thumb-nail  sketches,  and  tail-pieces.  Frontispiece 
and  three  full-page  illustrations.  i2mo.  Ornamental 
Cloth,  $1.25. 

Does  anybody  remember  the  opera  of  The  Inca,  and  that  heart-breaking 
episode  where  the  Court  Undertaker,  in  a  morbid  desire  to  increase  his  pro- 
fessional skill,  deliberately  accomplishes  the  destruction  of  his  middle-aged 
relatives  in  order  to  inter  them  for  the  sake  of  practice  ? 

If  I  recollect,  his  dismal  confession  runs  something  like  this : 

"  It  was  in  bleak  November 
When  I  slew  them,  I  remember, 
As  I  caught  them  unawares 
Drinking  tea  in  rocking-chairs." 

And  so  he  talked  them  to  death,  the  subject  being  "What  Really  Is  Art?" 
Afterward  he  was  sorry — 

"  The  squeak  of  a  door, 

The  creak  of  a  floor, 
My  horrors  and  fears  enhance  ; 

And  I  wake  with  a  scream 

As  I  hear  in  my  dream 
The  shrieks  of  my  maiden  aunts !  " 

Now  it  is  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  suggest  that  those  highly  respectable 
pseudo-spinsters,  the  Sister  Arts,  supposedly  cozily  immune  in  their  polyga- 
mous chastity  ( for  every  suitor  for  favor  is  popularly  expected  to  be  wedded  to 
his  particular  art) — I  repeat,  it  is  very  dreadful  to  suggest  that  these  impeccable 
old  ladies  are  in  danger  of  being  talked  to  death. 

But  the  talkers  are  talking  and  Art  Nouveau  rockers  are  rocking,  and  the 
trousers  of  the  prophet  are  patched  with  stained  glass,  and  it  is  a  day  of  dinki- 
ness  and  of  thumbs. 

Let  us  find  comfort  in  the  ancient  proverb :  "  Art  talked  to  death  shall  rise 
again."  Let  us  also  recollect  that  "Dinky  is  as  dinky  does;"  that  "All  u 
not  Shaw  that  Bernards ; "  that  "  Better  Yeates  than  Clever ; "  that  words  are 
so  inexpensive  that  there  is  no  moral  crime  in  robbing  Henry  to  pay  James. 

Firmly  believing  all  this,  abjuring  all  atom-pickers,  slab  furniture,  and 
woodchuck  literature — save  only  the  immortal  verse : 

"  And  there  the  wooden-chuck  doth  tread  ; 

While  from  the  oak  trees'  tops 
The  red,  red  squirrel  on  the  head 
The  frequent  acorn  drops." 

Abjuring,  as  I  say,  dinkiness  in  all  its  forms,  we  may  still  hope  that  those 
cleanly  and  respectable  spinsters,  the  Sister  Arts,  will  continue  throughout  the 
ages,  rocking  and  drinking  tea  unterrified  by  the  million-tongued  clamor  in 
the  back  yard  and  below  stairs,  where  thumb  and  forefinger  continue  the 
question  demanded  by  intellectual  exhaustion  : 

"  L'arr  1     Kesker  say  1'arr  ? " 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


"A  beautiful  romance  of  the  days  of  Robert  Burns," 

Nancy  Stair. 

A  Novel.  By  ELINOR  MACARTNEY  LANE,  author 
of "  Mills  of  God."  Illustrated.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  With  very  much  the  grace  and  charm  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  the  author  of  *  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  com- 
bines unusual  gifts  of  narrative,  characterization,  color,  and 
humor.  She  has  also  delicacy,  dramatic  quality,  and  that 
rare  gift — historic  imagination. 

"  *  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  is  interesting  from  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last ;  the  characters  are  vital  and  are,  also, 
most  entertaining  company;  the  denouement  unexpected 
and  picturesque  and  cleverly  led  up  to  from  one  of  the 
earliest  chapters;  the  story  moves  swiftly  and  without  a 
hitch.  Robert  Burns  is  neither  idealized  nor  caricatured ; 
Sandy,  Jock,  Pitcairn,  Danvers  Carmichael,  and  the  Duke 
of  Borthewicke  are  admirably  relieved  against  each  other, 
and  Nancy  herself  as  irresistible  as  she  is  natural.  To  be 
sure,  she  is  a  wonderful  child,  but  then  she  manages  to 
make  you  believe  she  was  a  real  one.  Indeed,  reality  and 
naturalness  are  two  of  the  charms  of  a  story  that  both 
reaches  the  heart  and  engages  the  mind,  and  which  can 
scarcely  fail  to  make  for  itself  a  large  audience.  A  great 
deal  of  delightful  talk  and  interesting  incidents  are  used  for 
the  development  of  the  story.  Whoever  reads  it  will  advise 
everybody  he  knows  to  read  it ;  and  those  who  do  not  care 
for  its  literary  quality  cannot  escape  the  interest  of  a  love- 
story  full  of  incident  and  atmosphere." 

44  Powerfully  and  attractively  written." — Pittsburg  Pott* 

"  A  story  best  described  with  the  word  '  charming.'  ** 

—  Washington  Pest, 

y.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


LOVE,  HONOR,  AND  BEAUTY. 

The  House  of  Hawley. 

By  ELMORE  ELLIOTT  PEAKE.  121110.  Orna- 
mental Cloth,  $1.50. 

Sweet  is  the  adjective  that  most  properly  applies  to  this 
entrancing  novel.  It  is  a  pure,  lovely  story  of  a  grand  old 
man,  a  beautiful  young  girl,  and  her  noble  young  lover. 
The  dainty  descriptions  of  the  heroine  and  her  friends  are 
so  crisp  and  vivid  that  the  reader  is  awe-stricken  at  the 
writer's  grasp  of  the  beautiful  in  life.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
southern  Illinois,  and  that  locality  will  henceforward  have 
a  definite  place  in  fiction. 

"  '  Egypt,'  better  known  to  geographers  as  a  region  of  southern  Illi- 
nois, is  seven  hours'  ride  from  Chicago  by  train,  but  a  century  apart  in 
customs  and  atmosphere.  Mr.  Peake  has  found  in  it  a  new  setting  for 
the  old  theme  of  true  love  never  running  smooth,  and  has  added  to  the 
leisurely  charm  of  the  story  by  dose  character  drawing  of  the  unusual 
types  in  this  eddy  of  American  life." — Booklovers,  Philadelphia. 

"'The  House  of  Hawley,'  by  Elmore  Elliott  Peake  is  one  of  the 
1  homiest '  stories  we  have  met  in  a  long  while.  .  .  .  Instead  of  calling 
so  often  for  the  great  American  novel,  perhaps  we  should  give  more 
attention  to  the  many  good  American  novels,  of  which  'The  House  of 
Hawley '  is  one,  containing  faithful  and  interesting  portrayal  of  life  in 
some  one  of  the  many  and  diversified  sections  of  the  country." 

— New  York  Globe. 

"  '  The  House  of  Hawley '  is  a  fresh,  readable  story  by  Elmore  Elliott 
Peake,  the  theme  of  which  is  laid  in  the  '  Egypt '  of  southern  Illinois. 
The  tide  fits  better  than  usual,  and  the  characters  depicted  are  real 
people.  There  is  not  a  single  stick  of  dead  timber  among  the  various 
men  and  women." — Chicago  Record- Her  aid, 

"If  you  have  ever  lived  in  southern  Illinois  or  the  Missouri  and 
Kentucky  neighborhoods  on  the  opposite  banks  of  the  Mississippi  and 
Ohio  rivers,  you  may  make  a  pleasant  holiday  trip  there  through  the 
pages  of  this  book.  The  word  pictures  are  as  faithfully  rendered  as  if 
done  by  the  lens  of  a  kodak." — Minneapolis  Times. 

"  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  whole  book.  It  is  well  worth 
reading." — St.  Louis  Star. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  OF  A  MASTER  MIND. 

The  Prodigal  Son. 

By  HALL  CAINE.    i2mo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  Prodigal  Son  "  follows  the  lines  of  the  Bible  para- 
ble in  the  principal  incidents,  but  in  certain  important 
particulars  it  departs  from  them.  In  a  most  convincing 
way,  and  with  rare  beauty,  the  story  shows  that  Christ's 
parable  is  a  picture  of  heavenly  mercy,  and  not  of  human 
justice,  and  if  it  were  used  as  an  example  of  conduct  among 
men  it  would  destroy  all  social  conditions  and  disturb  ac- 
cepted laws  of  justice.  The  book  is  full  of  movement  and 
incident,  and  must  appeal  to  the  public  by  its  dramatic 
story  alone.  The  Prodigal  Son  at  the  close  of  the  book 
has  learned  this  great  lesson,  and  the  meaning  of  the  parable 
is  revealed  to  him.  Neither  success  nor  fame  can  ever  wipe 
out  the  evil  of  the  past.  It  is  not  from  the  unalterable  laws 
of  nature  and  life  that  forgiveness  can  be  hoped  for. 

"  Since  '  The  Manxman '  Hall  Caine  has  written  nothing  so  moving 
in  its  elements  of  pathos  and  tragedy,  so  plainly  marked  with  the  power 
to  search  the  human  heart  and  reveal  its  secret  springs  of  strength  and 
weakness,  its  passion  and  strife,  so  sincere  and  satisfying  as  '  The  Prodi' 
gal  Son.' " — New  York  Times. 

"  It  is  done  with  supreme  self-confidence,  and  the  result  is  a  work 
of  genius." — New  York  Evening  Pott. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  will  hold  the  reader's  attention  from  cover  to 
cover." — Philadelphia  Record. 

"  This  is  one  of  Hall  Caine's  best  novels—one  that  a  large  portion 
of  the  fiction-reading  public  will  thoroughly  enjoy." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald, 

"  It  is  a  notable  piece  of  fiction." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

'•  In  '  The  Prodigal  Son"  Hall  Caine  has  produced  his  greatest  work." 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Caine  has  achieved  a  work  of  extraordinary  merit,  a  fiction  a* 
finely  conceived,  as  deftly  constructed,  as  some  of  the  best  work  of  out 
living  novelists." — London  Daily  Mail. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  is  indeed  a  notable  novel ;  and  a  work  that 
may  certainly  rank  with  the  best  of  recent  fiction.  .  .  ." 

—  Westminster  CmtttU. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


WIT,  SPARKLING,  SCINTILLATING  WIT, 
IS.-THE  ESSENCE  OF 

Kate  of  Kate  Hall, 

By  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER, 

whose  reputation  was  made  by  her  first  book, 
"  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby,"  and  enhanced  by  her 
last  success,  "  Place  and  Power." 

"  In  '  Kate  of  Kate  Hall,'  by  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler,  the  ques- 
tion of  imminent  concern  is  the  marriage  of  super-dainty,  peppery* 
tempered  Lady  Katherine  Clare,  whose  wealthy  godmother,  erstwhile 
deceased,  has  left  her  a  vast  fortune,  on  condition  that  she  shall  be 
wedded  within  six  calendar  months  from  date  of  the  testator's  death. 

"An  easy  matter,  it  would  seem,  for  bonny  Kate,  notwithstanding 
her  aptness  at  sharp  repartee,  is  a  morsel  fit  for  the  gods. 

"  The  accepted  suitor  appears  in  due  time  ;  but  comes  to  grief  at  the 
last  moment  in  a  quarrel  with  Lady  Kate  over  a  kiss  bestowed  by  her 
upon  her  godmother's  former  man  of  affairs  and  secretary.  This  inci- 
dent she  haughtily  refuses  to  explain.  Moreover,  she  shatters  the  bond 
of  engagement,  although  but  three  weeks  remain  of  the  fatal  six  months. 
She  would  rather  break  stones  on  the  road  all  day  and  sleep  in  a 
pauper's  grave  all  night,  than  marry  a  man  who,  while  professing  to  love 
her,  would  listen  to  mean  and  malicious  gossips  picked  up  by  tell-tales 
in  the  servants'  hall. 

"  So  the  great  estate  is  likely  to  be  lost  to  Kate  and  her  debt-ridden 
father,  Lord  Claverley.  How  it  is  conserved  at  last,  and  gloomy  appre- 
hension chased  away  by  dazzling  visions  of  material  splendor — that  is 
the  author's  well-kept  secret,  not  to  be  shared  here  with  a  careless  and 
indolent  public." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"  The  long-standing  reproach  that  women  are  seldom  [humorists 
seems  in  a  fair  way  of  passing  out  of  existence.  Several  contemporary 
feminine  writers  have  at  least  sufficient  sense  of  humor  to  produce  char- 
acters as  deliciously  humorous  as  delightful.  Of  such  order  is  the 
Countess  Claverley,  made  whimsically  real  and  lovable  in  the  recent 
book  by  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler  and  A.  L.  Felkin,  « Kate  of  Kate 
Hall.'  "—Chicago  Record- Her  aid. 

" '  Kate  of  Kate  Hall '  is  a  novel  in  which  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler 
displays  her  brilliant  abilities  at  their  best.  The  story  is  well  constructed, 
the  plot  develops  beautifully,  the  incidents  are  varied  and  brisk,  and  the 
dialogue  is  deliciously  clever." — Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle. 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


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